


Entwined Enchantments

by kahlannightwing



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Art History, Frottage, Guessing game, Hinduism, Historical, Hodu, M/M, Mentions of Children Dying, Music, Mythology References, Prophecy, Sex, Shinar - Freeform, The Flood - Freeform, bad original poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22594696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kahlannightwing/pseuds/kahlannightwing
Summary: Crawly is assigned to steal a specific flute by Hell. He doesn't know why, but it's a break from the insufferable aftereffects of the flood. Stealing the flute is a little too easy, and running into Aziraphale is an extra treat he won't pass up. When someone offers to take the flute off his hands, why shouldn't he say no? A demon who vaguely sauntered downwards, however, isn't known for not asking too many questions, and Aziraphale is not one to let an item of the purest love remain lost.For the Good Omens Big Bang 2019. I worked with cozsheep --https://cozsheep.tumblr.com/-- a wonderfully talented artist who blessed me with two pictures of my fic and loved it to pieces -- and also pushed me to come up with a title-- and my ever-patient beta Amy!  A great big thanks to you both!I hope you all enjoy my labor of love.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

Crawly shivered, pressing his shoulders against the boulder he crouched behind. The sun had sunk hours ago, and the air was chilling. The boulder was retaining its heat from the sun, but even it was cooling off. He could be starting a fire or getting a warm room at an inn, but instead he was listening to a man's laughter from the river.

His golden slit-pupil-ed eyes caught sight of a stubborn bit of brush thrusting out from between two rocks, and he scoffed, kicking a pebble toward it. It bounced harmlessly off one of the rocks and skittered to the side, and the plant trembled. It was tenaciously sprouting up, pinched stem straining from the press of the rocks as if to say, 'hey, you and me aren't so unalike right now.' He wanted to yell at it for showing off.

The male voice and the answering female voices on the other side of the boulder did not falter.

An hour ago Crawly had finally found the man Hell had sent him after. They had been positioned where Crawly was now. The man had been sitting cross-legged on top of the boulder, the women seated beneath him in a semi-circle. A wooden flute had been pressed to his lips, his fingers dancing over the holes. By the way they women had hummed and swayed, staring in enraptured reverence, Crawly presumed the flute made noise. He hadn't actually heard it make any sound though.

The man had been easy to track down. It seemed he was pretty famous in this country. It wasn't him Crawly had come for though. He was focused on the flute. Mute or not, Hell wanted him to steal the flute and keep it from him for a month. He didn't know why he had to steal the flute, and asking Hastur had been a mistake. He was stealing a flute, and if he was stealing a broken flute, then he was stealing a broken flute.

Another chorus of cooing cheers broke out, and he groaned, rubbing a hand over his face as he tried to work out a clever plan to get the flute. He'd peeked around the boulder not five minutes ago to see the dark-skinned, black-haired man wading in the middle of the river with a giggling gaggle of women.

The flute was dangling by a string at his waist, dipping into the water sporadically with the man's movements as he romped with the women.

Didn't water ruin musical instruments? Crawly had been around enough of them in the hands of humans to know they tended to keep them dry. Of course, if it was already broken, it couldn't technically be ruined.

As if on cue to that thought, he heard the musical language of the man pipe up. "Anila, go and place my flute on the shore. Do not hide it like you usually do," the voice teased. There was a mumbled reply before the sound of water rippling with movement increased in volume.

Crawly wanted to glance around the boulder, but the noises were coming closer to his hiding place. He couldn't believe he was this lucky, but if he just waited, he had a chance to get the flute right now.

He had to chance a peek to see where she was heading with the flute. Holding his breath, he turned his head and leaned over until he could just see a shadow darting over the ground. Anila clambered onto the shore with the flute in hand, set it on a rock, and then giggled and covered it with torn fronds.

Hadn't she just been told not to hide it? Frowning, he watched Anila do a terrible job hiding the flute, the mischievous glances she darted back at the man speaking of experience. The man was not looking toward her.

Crawly ducked back as she turned, inhaling noisily. There was silence for a heartbeat and then light splashing and giggles faded away from him. He exhaled, deflating back against the cool stone.

He should have been able to miracle the flute into his hands and place a copy to replace it on the rock. That had been his first plan when he'd arrived. Dropping his hand down, he'd snapped his fingers upwards and nothing had happened. He'd felt a strange trembling in the air around his fingers, traveling over his hand and kissing his skin until it created goose pimples. He'd done it three times after that with similar failure

At first he'd assumed it was the man. When he'd flicked out his tongue and brought it back into his mouth, he'd tasted something in the back of his throat that had not been demonic or angelic. It was not purely human either. Now that the flute and the man were separated, he was sure he could even make himself unnoticeable to snatch the flute up.

Tasting the air again, he grimaced at the difference in the scents. While the male had the same sort of vibration circling him, the flute radiated it at a pitch that reached out and gripped Crawly at his center, right below his chest and near the pit of his stomach. Shaking himself, he rubbed his back against the boulder, allowing the roughness to scrape away the lingering taste-scent-touch of the flute

Peeking around the boulder, he waited until he saw the slip of a woman stop beside the man who was engaged in a story with the women before he snapped his fingers to make himself unnoticeable. He felt the same reverberation and frowned down at his hands as if they were at fault. Sighing, he considered his options.

He did not want to stay here. It was cold, and his chance of being seen or heard grew with every moment that passed. They were distracted. He'd just have to do it the human way. He slipped from the shadow of the boulder, slithering in the space between the boulder and flute, serpentine in his movement.

Crouched at the flat rock, he leaned over, pushing aside the leaves used as cover. As his fingers brushed the flute, he felt a shock travel through his hand. He drew back, head snapping to the man and his entourage as something gripped his muscles and turned them to lead.

The man was staring at him. Trapped in that gaze, Crawly's muscled jumped, eyes so wide he felt the cool air touching them.

The man's eyes were unworried as they traveled over the entirety of Crawly's form, frozen in place. Crawly felt his insides tremble, shift as something seemed to reach out from those eyes and touch him in a way that was terribly familiar and felt like Falling. That seemed to break his paralysis. His hand darted down, clutching the red-stained reed flute in his hands. He turned, his black robes snapping in the wind as he fled without bothering to mask his sound.

He heard the startled noises of the women behind him and the solid laughter of the male. He didn't look to see if it was because of him. Flute vibrating in his hands, he disappeared into the sparse tree cover, expecting the ground behind him to leave no trace of his passage.


	2. Chapter 2

He wasn't pursued. Despite that, he didn't stop covering his tracks and kept a quick pace. He skirted along the river, upstream, and didn't pause no matter where the sun or moon lay in the sky.

He stopped on the third day, the flute hanging by its string around his thin waist. He'd taken the time to set up a temporary shelter near the river. Rocks, leaves, and whole branches from plants that didn't grow in Shinar were used to create a roof, walls, and eventually a soft place to lay his head.

He planned on staying here since there wasn't anyone chasing him for at least a week. Then he'd make his way into a populated place to blend into the crowd better, though his black robes, red hair, and pale skin allowed him to do little of that. For now, sleeping out in the wilderness would draw the least bit of attention.

He had started sleeping during the flood. He'd slept through the water rising and had come out after it had drained. Wandering around, he'd taken one look at the results of the flood and gone back to sleep. By the time he woke up again, the mess had been cleaned, but it stayed indelibly in his mind.

'Not the kids,' circled in his mind as he wandered around, doing this little temptation or task that Hell assigned. There was a sort of detachment to his movements, his actions ringing with bitter nonchalance as the images he had to swallow down rose to the surface. There were bodies shining wetly and twisted together, bloated by water. He knew what it smelled like on his tongue. He desperately wanted something to distract himself from the sense-memories, but there were only small projects that required no real effort. Stealing the flute was the first big task he'd been assigned since ascending into the Garden.

The chance to get away from Shinar and the memories of the Flood were enough to send him traveling all the way to a place called Hodu. It was a large land, and the people there were darker-skinned. The people of Hodu didn't seem to mind him much. He'd been stared at, but they left him to wander around and ask questions. Now he had the flute.

Clasping that flute in one hand, he untied it from his waist. He held it up for inspection, feeling the fragility of the reed it was made from. It trembled with soft power in his hands, sinking through his skin and into his bones. It was not a comfortable sensation, but he didn't want to put it down.

He'd never held an instrument before, but he'd heard them and seen them played: the animal skins stretched over wood shaped into a circle, flutes made of a material not unlike this flute was. The flute was stained a deep red, a series of seven holes running along its length. One hole was set further to the side and was where the mouth would go.

Stretching it out horizontally, he rested his lips near the hole. He hesitated for a moment, tasting and smelling the plant fibers beneath his nose before he blew gently, fingers not covering any holes.

The flute made no sound.

He frowned, glaring at it as he held it away from his mouth. Snorting, he licked his lips with a forked tongue, made it human-shaped with a thought, and tried again. This time he formed his lip above the hole, leaving some space between the dipping curve on top of his lip and the opening below it. The air pushed down into the hole. He could feel the slide of his breath through the reed, and it ghosted past his fingers where they rested above the other holes.

The only sound was the hollow hum of air. The wind that brushed past and pushed hair into his eyes was louder. The flute itself stayed repressively silent.

Gritting his teeth, he drew his lips back so they didn't brush against the flute. Maybe the water had damaged it. He didn't know enough about instruments to be able to tell. He brought it up a third time, taking in a deep breath and blowing hard into the hole.

The only thing the energized air did was push out of the flute's openings aggressively. The wood didn't so much as flex under his hands. He tossed the flute onto the ground in a single, sharp motion, watching it bounce across the grassy dirt with a dull thunk.

Staring balefully at it, he reached to his waist again, this time undoing a water-skin that he uncorked and tipped toward his mouth. The rush of wine was quick to fill his stomach with warmth, and he turned his face away from the instrument, brows drawn over eyes flashing with frustration.

He laid back on his makeshift cushion of leaves and grasses, squinting at the sky and wondering not for the first time why his chest felt tight. It had been an on-going occurrence since the Flood. Reaching a hand to it, he rubbed at the spot right underneath his ribs. He couldn't feel anything but a dull and persistent ache.

Turning his head, he stared at the reed flute, letting the hand at his chest flop out to land limp near it. He stretched his fingers out to touch it, grasping until it rolled toward him. Pressing it into his hand, he drew it back to his lips, though lying down should make it harder to play.

As he lay there, staring up at the sky, he considered the heavy emptiness inside him and when it had started. If he was honest as a demon could be, it was when Aziraphale had told him what was happening as they watched the construction of the Ark. Despite everything he knew God was capable of, the jealousy and the unyielding anger, he couldn't wrap his head around the concept of drowning a whole group of people.

He brought the memory to his mind to study it. Remembering how Aziraphale squinted at him after telling Crowley of the Flood and Noah's family being spared, leaning back slightly with hands pressed firmly in front of his stomach.

Crowley's brows rose. "But they're drowning," he emphasized that word, "everybody else?"

Aziraphale's lips pressed thin as he sucked them in, silently nodding with nervous glances toward Crowley. Crowley spared the crowd around them a shocked stare. There were children playing, people collecting food and doing chores. He'd done some of those chores. He'd watched them break bread and shared in their wine.

He'd sat around a fire and listened to their stories, interjecting with questions that the children around him had echoed. "Not the kids. You can't kill kids!" 

Those words were the ones that echoed in his head when he exited the high ground he'd slept in to wait out the Flood. Those were the bodies that haunted him the most.

He knew Aziraphale wanted to protest. He'd seen it in the helpless way he'd looked at the people around them. The attempted light tone of the rainbow was a cover. He could taste that in the air around Aziraphale. He pitied him as much as he had the humans who would die.

Afterward, he had left the angel to look after the Ark and its occupant. He'd spent his time urging the humans to flee. He pretended that some who might have listened had time to escape the waters.

He thought of Aziraphale in front of the Ark, watching its construction. He thought of the way the light reflected off his hair the way it reflected off the clouds above him. Sighing, he placed his lips over the opening and blew. Despite his new position, air seemed to flow easier into it.

For a moment, as he lay there with the image of distraught blue eyes, he heard a piercing note. It was high and clear, ringing out as it circled him. Pushing the flute away, golden eyes wide, he sat up. He quickly pressed his lips back to the flute, but though the air went through the instrument, it was silent.

Laying back down, brows furrowed, he attempted to play again. He could feel more air going through, but that perfect sound did not repeat. Scoffing, he rolled into a sitting position and then stood.

As he looked around, his glare was enough to make a nearby plant wither. His gaze fell on the flute, but it didn't so much as tremble. It felt as though it was mocking him. Had he wanted the sound so much he'd imagined it?

He didn't know how he was going to hang onto it without breaking it. It was pissing him off. He didn't see the use of a flute that didn't work. Hell had been specific though. He had to keep it from the owner's possession for one month.

Snorting at the innocuous flute, he turned his glare to the river. His brows furrowed, eying the river's flow that carried the water away from where he'd stolen it. An idea formed in his mind, and he smirked.

He turned his smug expression to the flute, voicing his brilliance as he taunted, "Think I'm going to just cart you around like a delivery boy? You're broken. What's the use of you anyway? Hell just said I have to keep you away from him, not that I have to keep you."

With the river rapidly flowing opposite of where he'd come from, he could toss it right in, and it would be lost for more than a month. With luck, the flute would stay lost forever.

Confident strides led him to the water's edge. He stepped in until cold wetness soaked through the bottom of his black robes and froze his feet. Staring over the brown-stained waters, he tried to see anything on the far side. Growing rings of water broke the surface of the river, expanding outward. Something had touched the water, but Crowley couldn't see what because of the murkiness of the river.

Snorting, he looked down at the flute in his hands and smirked. "This'll take care of you," he boasted.

He stretched back his arm and then yanked it forward, letting go of the flute at the highest point. The flute sailed through the air and plopped without preamble into the water. It floated for a moment until an eddy caught it, sent it under, and bobbed it back to twist in the stream. It began to travel like a shot downstream.

Crawly turned from the river and the lost flute, wiping his hand on his robe to get rid of the imagined sensation of it. From behind him came a high-pitched chattering sound, wet and shrill. He stopped, both brows shooting up, and turned to face the river again.

He could spy the dark red of the flute bobbing several meters from where it had landed, but beside it, poking from the water was a long, thin, many-toothed jaw. The head of the creature was rounded, smooth and shining, and it opened its mouth and made that chattering sound again.

It was staring right at Crawly. Another head joined it, and then a third, and their long snouts began to prod the flute around, against the current and upriver. Crawly's eyes widened, dumbstruck as he watched the dolphins work in unison to direct, guide, and correct the movement of the flute.

With the speed of the water, it was going to take a while, and it would have been easier if one of them had taken the flute in their mouth and gone underwater with it. The shape of their teeth seemed to discourage that idea, though Crawly was still wondering how these animals were coordinating themselves to guide the flute upriver and toward the man.

He was sure that was what they were doing. He'd never noticed animals act with intent. Even the animals two by two into the Ark had to be marshaled and forced into the big boat.

Grumbling under his breath, he stumbled into a run toward the river bank. "Hey! Stop that!"

One of the dolphins raised its snout into the air and made a repeated chattering noise that sounded like laughter. 

Crawly’s cheeks went red as his eyes flashed, and he snapped his fingers toward the ground and drew his hand up in an aggressive motion. He'd forgotten that miracles did not work on the flute.

"Shit," he shouted to another chattering laugh and waded into the cold river. He gasped, shivering as bumps formed across his skin. He hated the cold. It made him feel sluggish and disoriented.

Fisting his robes in both hands as the water weighed them around entangled them around his ankles, he growled. He finally wrestled with the entire garment, yanking it up hard enough to pull his hair. He tossed it back onto the shore behind him, naked now as he stepped into the water. He went to his hips before he took a deep breath and then dove headfirst into the water.

The water was freezing enough to take his breath away. He surfaced only to get a bearing on where he needed to swim. The water's flow pushed him quickly away from the dolphins, who had noticed his entry and were renewing their struggle with the flute.

At least he could miracle the water around himself to lessen the resistance of the flow. He kicked legs and arms, well used to swimming by now, and pushed toward the flute. He was quick to gain on the dolphins since all their concentration was on a small, bobbing tube that resisted their attempts to guide it.

One of the dolphins turned, chattering with sharp tones, and dived down. Crawly stopped, paddling in the water as he looked around for the creature. The water was dark, murky, and becoming murkier as the dolphin's movements stirred the dirt from the river's bed.

Slapping at the water, he yelled, and then sputtered and tilted as a hard, smooth body caressed his side and tipped him into the water the wrong way.

He came back up from the depths a bit further down from the dolphins, the head of the instigator above the surface and laughing again. His eyes were encased in yellow, black slits just visible as he yelled at the creature again, dove under the river's push, and swam toward the thing.

Under the surface, he could see the creature, ducking towards him and sliding down to travel under him. Twisting his body, he reached to grab the dorsal as it passed, yanking hard. He was sure the creature would have made an angry noise if it could have, but nonplussed, it continued on, dragging Crawly with it.

The demon remembered he didn't have to breathe in enough time to not release the dolphin to break the surface. He focused on holding onto the dolphin as it did what he had hoped it would do: turned to its fellows for help.

The other two dolphins moved to assist, and that moment was the one Crawly waited for. The flute was bared just above him. Crawly lunged for the flute, an awkward underwater movement that he spurred with kicking legs that found purchase on the creature's back and pushed.

His hand closed on the flute just as a dolphin's body knocked him to the side. He didn't even let the spin finish before he had miracled himself back onshore, tumbling with the continued motion until he came to a stop with a rock pinching his back and more than a couple of bruises.

The flute was clutched in one hand triumphantly held aloft. He grinned, standing quicker than advised as his aching body reprimanded him, and shook it in the air. "Got it! I got it!"

The three dolphins' heads bobbed in the water, staring at him, and then as one turned and sank back under the water.

Crawly flicked his forked tongue out, bringing the flute to his chest. The wind blew toward him and he paused, eyes going wide as he caught something on his tongue. It was a slightly familiar scent. His mind wanted to categorize it as just a snake, but he smelled something else with it — the same kind of feeling as the man he’d taken the flute from.

He performed a slow turn where he stood, staring at the underbrush and seeing a movement behind a tree. Frowning, he took a step toward the tree.

"Crawly!"

His whole body stiffened when he heard the voice, turning his head to stare wide-eyed at the voice from the other side of the river. Forgetting the smell and movement of the stranger, he spun his body toward the figure. "Aziraphale," he yelled across the water.

The small, tan-clothed figure waved at him with a hand over his head. "What—you—?"

The wind carried half the sound away from him, and Crawly cupped a hand to his ear. "What," he bellowed.

"Oh! Wait— I'll come—," was the half-heard reply.

Sighing out of his nose, Crawly moved to his robes, picking them up to miracle them dry and wrap them around his naked body. Aziraphale appeared beside him with a small flash of light, and Crawly jumped, pressing a hand to his chest.

"Sorry," came the chagrined mumble. "What are you doing all the way in Hodu?" The angel's hands were clasped in front of him. Compared to the last time Crawly had seen him, Aziraphale seemed less nervous. His hands were still; his body wasn't jerking. He was even smiling, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling.

He looked far too amused, and Crawly hated to think what he might have seen.

"Could ask you the same thing," he grumbled. He slid the flute into his robes as he waved a hand toward Aziraphale, indicating his entire person. "You're far away from Shinar too. Another disaster to watch?"

Aziraphale's smile slipped, but he rolled his shoulders as he accepted the verbal punch and gave Crawly a stony stare. "I heard," the angel enunciated, "that there was good food to be had in Hodu. They have special spices here. I thought I would introduce them in Shinar, but I'm told that trade like that won't happen for some time." He shrugged his shoulders. "So no, Crawly, I'm not here on business. Are you?"

Aziraphale hadn't lied to him yet about missions he was given, dire messages to send out, or tasks to complete. He didn't feel like lying either. He thought it was convenient on both their parts to be upfront. "I am here on business. Also...taking some time away."

The curve of the angel's shoulders straightened. The expression in his eyes was unfathomable to Crawly, turning them a stormy grey. "Ah, yes, I feel the same. I requested some time off. I wanted to come here because of the food. I was just wandering around, and then I felt the strangest thing and have been following the river for a bit."

Aziraphale turned his eyes downriver, and Crowley furrowed his brows. They certainly were not going that way. He meant Aziraphale was not going that way, and they would be traveling together so— He halted his mental train of thought because he was getting ahead of himself. The first thing he needed to do was probe more.

"Yeah? What'd you feel?" He kept his tone nonchalant, not turning to look where Aziraphale had.

Aziraphale turned back to him with wide eyes, and then he smiled softly. "I felt love," he cooed.

Wrinkling his nose, Crawly didn't hide the disdain in his tone. "Did you? Interesting. Don't feel any of that myself, but you wanted food, right? Know there's a village a bit down that way." He pointed up-river.

"W-with you?" Aziraphale parted his lips, licked them, and glanced up-river. "You want to come with me?" His gaze was nothing but curious.

"Might as well. I got a task. You have hunger. I can't—" Crawly sighed and pointed up-river. "I can't go that way. My mission is that way." He pointed downriver. "So, I've been through a lot of Hodu. I can show you places you might've missed. Travel with me?"

"Oh," he stated at the explanation. He was silent for a moment before he nodded, smiling. "Lead on, Crawly."

Crawly didn't know the reason he'd accepted, but he nodded and turned, adjusting the flute so it wouldn't slide out of his robe. He left the camp where it was. It wouldn't do any harm.

Aziraphale tread along beside him, and they struck up a casual conversation to catch each other up on their activities. Crawly did not tell him what his mission was, and Aziraphale didn't ask for now.

The noise Crawly had heard earlier from the trees became the solid form of a man who watched them for a moment before following.


	3. Chapter 3

"I know it's supposed to make you clean, but it's ash and animal fat. They aren't clean separately so how can it make you clean combined," Crawly bitched. He waved his cup at Aziraphale, a bit of the dark wine spilling out and hitting the brightly patterned rug they'd spread on the ground. They both held cups with a plate of carefully selected food between them.

Despite them sitting off of the main road of the city and speaking loudly, they weren't bothered by the people passing nearby.

"It's the friction, Crawly, and there's cloth too. The cloth and the soap create friction together, and it takes off the sweat and dirt," Aziraphale supplied. He grimaced at the stain growing on the rug, but he also didn't miracle it away.

"But it's ash and animal fat," Crawly repeated. "You don't just rub that stuff on you and get clean!" He saved the wine in his cup this time, sipping to keep it from spilling. His hand snapped upwards and the stain vanished.

In the first city they'd visited, Crawly found he could apparently flick his tongue and pick up the smell of food at a greater distance than Aziraphale. Crawly had led them to a cart and paid for the plate as it was laden with food. Aziraphale — who muttered about not being able to miracle money without specific paperwork — hadn't raised a protest. They'd simply repeated that process in the second location.

"Of course you don't just rub that stuff on you," Aziraphale scoffed. He reached down to pick up a puffed pastry and dip it into some sort of rice mixture. As Aziraphale popped the combination into his mouth, Crawly leaned toward him, unabashedly watching his lips purse around the food, eyes slipping closed. He made a soft noise, swallowed, and continued. "They form it into bars and— You know that! You've bathed with it," he grumbled.

Crawly smirked. "Nice to see you get so riled up about it." It was nice to see him so impassioned. He liked the clear tones of his confidence and conviction. He liked less when Aziraphale looked like a pit of nerves was going to swallow him whole.

Crawly tilted his head as Aziraphale's expression shifted from disbelief to irritation. He felt warm as he watched those eyes alight, the pursed lips hardened. There was a vibration spreading outward from his hip and over his entire body. It felt pleasant — and he was drunk on their second pitcher of wine — so he didn't question it.

"Well, if we're playing that game, why were you wrestling with dolphins in the river," Aziraphale shot back, his voice tight and nasal. So far, he hadn't spoken of what he might have seen at the river. Obviously the battle-line had been crossed.

"I was not wrestling!" Frowning, he took another drink and pictured the creatures he'd fought the flute for. He worried Aziraphale might have seen more than he would have liked, but maybe he'd been too far to see the flute in question. "You sure those were dolphins? Thought dolphins came from the ocean."

"Oh, those are river dolphins." Aziraphale's expression changed to his lecturing one, and Crawly shifted himself to get comfortable for it while also preparing to interject. "They live in rivers."

When that proved to be the end of his knowledge, Crawly raised a single, red brow. "Well, I lost something in the river, and they were being asses by stealing it. I had to get it back."

"What did you lose?" That tone of voice was too innocent to fool Crawly, and combined with the raise of brows and the pleasant smile, he was immediately put on edge.

"My underwear," he dead-panned. He smirked as the angel's lips pressed thin. Crawly laughed. "It's a joke!" Sighing, he leaned back his head to roll his eyes at Aziraphale. "For anyone's sake, you're not going to let it go. You never let anything go."

He should tell him the truth. He should tell him everything. He should tell him how he really felt— The tremor at his hip increased, and he pressed his hand there, feeling the shape of the flute under it. 

Aziraphale's perplexed look snapped to where his hand was. "What," he began, but Crawly held up a hand.

Reaching into his black robes, he pulled out the maroon-colored bamboo flute. "See? It's just a flute. Think it's broken." He laid his hand flat so the flute was visible.

Aziraphale's eyes went round as he leaned to stare at the instrument. "What are you doing with a flute?" The incredulous tone made Crawly laugh. "What? You're carrying around an instrument, and demons wouldn't like music. It's a creation of the divine!"

He didn't know why he felt so delighted to show it to Aziraphale. The flute vibrated in his hand. The wine must be stronger than he thought. He felt light-headed. The words flowed from his tongue like the wine from a pitcher. "What makes you think I don't like it? I like music. Humans put words to it, and sometimes the words say things you never imagined before. They're brilliant with their words and their instruments. They put them together and...and it's like soap! Separate they don't do anything. Together they...they clean you," he babbled.

Aziraphale's lips pursed, eyes wide as he stared at Crawly as if he'd said something out of the ordinary. Thinking back, Crawly realized he had. He had no idea why he'd said all that. Music cleansed him? "I mean, uh—"

Cutting him off, Aziraphale nodded. "That's...a good analogy, Crawly," he agreed, his voice breathy. "But we both know you're on a mission." He sounded chiding, as if he were the one lecturing Crawly on being a proper demon. "I'm not sure why you have that flute, but it's not to make music."

He scrambled to get back to an ordinary conversation. "Only cause I've never learned," he argued. "I could make music if I wanted. This flute is broken though." He tied the flute back under his robes. He wouldn't say that he didn't know why Hell wanted him to have it either. It didn't matter. He'd wanted away from where he'd been. He hadn't wanted to go back to Hell, and seeing more of the world and what the humans did with it was exciting.

He remembered when he'd first experienced what they'd created with music, Divine or not. At first, the music was just the swell and fall of tones in the air. Then they put words to the tones. Crawly had been in the city of Eridu, about a decade or two back. He was drinking a passable version of some berry wine when the words of a female singer had drifted over to him, speaking of an emotion that made him turn where he sat on the floor to stare at her.

The firelight had turned her auburn hair the color of his wine. He had taken a drink and listened to her speak of someone that she missed, that she longed for, that made her ache and writhe inside. He decided then that he might end up liking some music, but it also annoyed him very much.

"Whose flute is it?" Aziraphale's question cut through his memories, bringing him back to the present and to why that question could be dangerous to answer directly.

"I wasn't told what their name was. I was just told to take it for a month." He pursed his lips, but he was not pouting. "I'll give it back once I'm done. I don't want to keep a broken flute anyways." He stared at Aziraphale, daring him to probe more.

Of course, Aziraphale would take that challenge. "And what if Hell tells you to destroy it, Crawly?" That tone in the angel's voice had become crisp and hard. His chin tipped upwards as his eyes turned flinty. "I can feel that flute you know." Brow creasing, he stared at Crawly's hip. "It doesn't feel...human."

Pouting, Crawly shrugged, his voice rising at Aziraphale's obstinacy. "I wasn't told to destroy it! I get a mission, they usually don't change from the telling. Yours don't either, do they?"

He watched Aziraphale's shoulders lift and fall, and that was confirmation enough for him. Whether the orders came from up high or down low, they were set from the beginning. It was all etched out in stone.

They were both following the Great Plan. Everything led to that, even if neither of them voiced it.

Crawly also saw the hypocrisy in the question. It was just a flute, no matter what Aziraphale might feel. What did it matter what he felt? It hadn't mattered what Crawly had felt about the Flood and the children.

He snorted as he pointed the flute at Aziraphale. "And what if I was told to destroy it? I'd have to destroy it. Unless you're thinking I'd go back and say," , he whined, "'ah, sorry, can't destroy the flute. It's important! Won't mind if I just give it back instead?'"

Aziraphale's chest puffed up as he leaned forward. "I would stop you if you tried to destroy it. That's what would happen! Good always triumphs over evil!"

Crawly shifted his feet, rising to his knees to gesture toward Aziraphale. He was satisfied when Aziraphale leaned back at the aggressive motions. "Yeah? You'd have to stick around for that, wouldn't you?" He didn't quite know why he yelled that part. He wasn't upset about that. "What would you do then? Steal it from me?"

"Crawly! Don't be ridiculous." The color was high in Aziraphale's cheeks, his blue eyes flashing with irritation and righteousness. "I would not steal what you stole! That would make me no better than you!"

The vibration at his hip — from the flute, he realized — increased again. He hadn't noticed if it had stopped or been persistent and just ignored. "You're just going to have to stay with me so you can make sure I don't destroy it. You can make sure I return it after I'm done. You can make sure it isn't damaged and gets back safely." He paused for effect, watching as Aziraphale processed those words with a furrowed brow. "I'll hand it over to you after a month. You can return it yourself."

"Are you," the angel bit out, eyes thunderous and lip curling upward, "suggesting I work with you, Crawly?"

Crawly snorted. "That would be stupid, wouldn't it?" Would it really be so stupid? They were meant to be here doing their own missions for their sides. The only rule he'd gotten was not to let the other side stop him. Had Aziraphale gotten similar instructions?

He never had smote him….

"No, I'm suggesting we act exactly as we've been told to. My mission is to keep it away from its owner for one month. I do that. I give it to you, and you thwart me by returning what I stole."

Aziraphale went silent. His lips pressed thin, and Crawly didn't know what it meant. Was he refusing? Was he considering all their previous encounters, when they had just stood, side-by-side, and watched what happened helplessly? Did Aziraphale feel twisted and tight inside with that impotence?

As the silence increased, Crawly's irritation grew with it, until his entire body felt as if it would vibrate him out of his skin. He wanted to rub his hands down his robes to still himself. He wanted to coat himself in a thick layer of scales to stop it.

"Would you say something?"

Aziraphale jumped, so lost in thought he might have forgotten Crawly was in front of him. He glared, stood, and brushed at his robes. "I am thinking," he stated primly. "I am going to go think elsewhere, and I will come back and give you my answer."

Standing with him, Crawly frowned and opened his mouth, but Aziraphale raised a hand between them.

"I need to think, Crawly," he said in a softer voice.

Something about the tone stilled Crawly, vibration and all. Nodding, he shrugged his shoulders. "Alright. I'll wait."

Aziraphale turned and strode off, disappearing into the press of people in the road at a faster pace than most would give him credit for.

Crawly stared after him before he bent down and picked up the pitcher of wine. He refilled his cup and drained it all. Tossing the cup onto the rug, he watched it roll away before leaving the rug with its food and drink. He walked away from the city, stopping to stand at the edge between stonework and overgrown brush.

"Excuse me," a voice hissed to his left.

Crawly stumbled over his legs as he spun around, flailing his arms. The man was dark skinned, and seemed human, but a quick flick of Crawly's tongue brought an other-worldly scent back to him. It was the same scent he'd picked up near the river.

Narrowing his eyes, he shifted one of his feet behind him cautiously. "What," he snapped.

"Forgive me," he began. His brown mustache that curled at the edges drew Crawly's eyes to his thin, smiling lips, but it was his eyes that made Crawly uneasy. They were amber and the pupils were barely round, thick, vertical slits.

They reminded him of his own eyes.

"Forgive you for what?" His lips curled into a grimace as he ran a hand through his long hair, attempting to untangle it. The other man's medium length waves were immaculate in comparison. Crawly hadn't done anything about his hair since the Flood. He still had a frayed braid on the side. "Spying on me by the river?"

The man didn't seem surprised he'd known he was watching, but Crawly had been staring right at him. "I would have approached you there, but your friend carries a strong presence. He has many eyes. If he had seen me, I wouldn't have been able to ask you about what you carry." His hand peeked out from the sleeves of his cobalt robes, gesturing toward Crawly's belt.

Crawly's hand strayed there before he could stop it, and he drew it back to clench at his side. "I'm borrowing it."

The man's slick smile wrinkled the bridge of his nose. "I imagined that was the case. I've been told to retrieve it too. We have different bosses. Maybe with the same agenda. I don't know. I don't care. If I don't get it, the consequences will be dire."

As Crawly drew back several more steps, both of the man's dusky hands rose, palms outward. "No need to be so shy," he pleaded. "I'm not going to take it by force. How long do you have to borrow it for? I can keep it away for that long. We'll both complete our tasks."

The smile continued, patiently waiting out Crawly as he scanned that face, flicked his tongue out at the strange scent several more times, and finally yielded. "A month," he spat.

"I can keep it away for a month. I fulfill my duties. You fulfill yours. The flute stops causing you problems." The amber eyes flicked behind Crawly. He didn't like the implication of those eyes tracing where Aziraphale had walked away.

"It doesn't cause me problems," he denied. "I don't care about your dire consequences. Who are you?"

A thin hand waved in the air, nails painted dark and long. "My name is Takshaka. As you say, but you have tried to play it. You know it's not normal. It was not fashioned by human hands. You don't wish to give it to me now, but it will continue to do...whatever it is doing. If you tire of it, I'll be around. 

"I will follow at a distance. I don't want your companion's eyes to catch me. If you wish to relieve yourself of it and aid me in fulfilling my duties, I will be nearby. Signal me when you are alone, and I will come."

Baring his teeth, Crawly waved a hand. "Well, Takshaka, I can tell you right now I won't. Signal you. I've already had dolphins try to give it back to him. I'm not going to let you do it." He wanted to know more about the flute. He wanted to know who had created it. He wanted to know who Takshaka's boss was and why they wanted it.

A long time in Hell had taught him some people you didn't ask questions. This was one of those people. He didn't trust Takshaka at all.

The man's smile did not expose his teeth, thin and not reaching his eyes. "I won't return the flute to its owner. The one who places this onus on me is his enemy. I will give the flute to him, and he will keep the flute from him." Even though he was still pushing, Takshaka stepped back with a shuffle of his bare feet. Then he turned and began to walk away.

Crawly didn't respond to him. He had no intention of giving the flute to anyone but Aziraphale and only then once a month had passed. He watched him leave without moving, intent enough on his retreating form that a clearing throat made his body flinch. Scowling, he turned at the unacceptable source of his surprise to catch worried blue eyes with his stare. He toned down the heat of his glare a bit.

"Who was that?" Aziraphale glanced from Crawly's expression to where Takshaka had been. He had already vanished from sight among the scant amount of cover from the trees.

Shrugging, Crawly flicked a hand away from them before he shrugged. "He said his name was Takshaka. He wants the flute." He turned his head to glare toward the empty space the other had occupied. Turning back to face Aziraphale, he scoffed at his doubtful expression. "I'm not going to give it to him.

The relief was palpable, but Aziraphale's shoulder were still drawn up around his neck. "Well…good. If he comes back around, I'll be sure to shoo him off."

That was the least threatening thing Aziraphale could have said. Luckily, Takshaka really did seem nervous about Aziraphale. Pausing, he refocused on what they'd been discussing before Takshaka had shown up. He cleared his throat and shifted toward Aziraphale. "Back so soon?"

Aziraphale mercifully didn't react to the weak transition. "I have decided I will accompany you. We should stay in Hodu for the month. There's plenty more food to try, and I'd rather not go back to Shinar only to have to come back here." He raised a finger right in front of Crawly's nose, his mouth set and his eyes hard. "I will be attempting to convince you to give me the flute so I can return it. I am meant to thwart you, and remaining idle is simply ridiculous."

"You think everything is ridiculous." His words were softer than the hard edge of the angel's. "Fine. We'll go on a tour of the cuisine here. It's a big enough land. We can follow the river down for a couple weeks, and then follow it back up. You'll be closer so you can return it to the man."

Crawly turned, making his way back to the rug and the wine remaining in the pitcher. As he poured himself the last glass, Aziraphale bent over to pick up the plate and the food left over. He began to nibble on it, looking at Crawly expectantly. "Who did you steal it from anyways?"

He drained the cup of wine, shrugging as a way of answer and tossing the cup on the rug. He snaps a finger and the entire setup, minus the plate in Aziraphale's hand, vanishes, miracled back to where they belonged. He was evil, not rude. "Next town then?"

Aziraphale nodded, pursing his lips as he looked at the one direction they could travel on this one road. He did not pursue the name of the owner of the flute for now. "Yes. The next town over has a delightfully spicy sauce they simmer with meat and put on warmed flat breads. I am quite eager to try it."

"Of course you would've heard about that," Crawly flatly proclaimed. "When did you become interested in human food anyways?" Crawly had only cared about what humans made that could be consumed when alcohol had been created. The first imbibing of liquor had been a rush that was enjoyable and made time pass and things lively.

"Oh, in the Garden." Aziraphale's smile went faint, a faraway gaze to his eyes. He must have been thinking about a time before a serpent had slithered in and coaxed 'why not; how can knowledge hurt?' "They had the most lovely fruits. I tried one Adam called a pear. It was crisp, sweet, and juicy. Nothing tastes as perfect as what was in the Garden, but they do work hard to recreate the taste.

"Every meal is as if they're trying to recreate the memory of that first one, Crawly!" Aziraphale wriggled his shoulders and beamed.

"Might be right there. I don't think human memories work like that though, but might be something poetic to it," he agreed. "Maybe it's a secret thing."

"Ineffable," Aziraphale was quick to remind him despite Crawly's sneer. "Speaking of secret things…." His eyes drifted pointedly to Crawly's waist. "If I promise to give it back to you, whole and undamaged in any way, do you think I could try playing it? The flute, I mean."

Crawly's eyes narrowed, assessing the words to check for any loopholes. Aziraphale was turning into a craftier bastard than he had expected. "If you promise? So are you going to promise?"

Aziraphale shot him an impressed and smug grin, his eyes containing a gleam of mischief that caught Crawly off-guard. He liked the look there. "Yes, Crawly. I promise to return it to you. I'm an angel. I'll keep my word."

"Mm, sure. Why not?" Unwrapping the red-stained flute from his waist, he passed it over to Aziraphale.

Taking it reverently in his hands, Aziraphale's fingers drifted over the smooth, round surface of it. If he felt any vibration, his expression showed nothing but a small smile. He placed his fingers randomly over the holes, lifted it to his lips, and pressed them near the opening before blowing softly.

Later, Crawly would not be able to recall what he had heard. He would not be able to hear its like ever again. He would spend centuries listening to music, straining for that note, and only catching a hint of its purity in the throats of select men and women.

If this was what secret memories were, this was a secret memory,. It would be as if all of the singers and he were trying to recreate that sound and the wash of feeling that soaked into his bones. It was a single note, clear and high, ringing toward Crawly, circling him, and returning like an echo. He heard it as a snake and as a man and as a demon and as a Fallen Angel all at once. He stumbled and a pale hand reached out to steady him, the sound halting much too soon.

"Oh, are you quite alright?" Aziraphale's hand drew back, the flute loose in his grip. "I'm afraid you're right. It doesn't work at all. I didn't hear anything" His face was screwed up in confusion, and his eyes were locked on Crawly's face.

He didn't want to imagine the concern in Aziraphale's gaze. That man, with his slick smile and his words, came back to him. He said the flute would cause him problems. Dread roiled in his stomach like the stench of rotten fruit.

"Yeah. See? No harm then in stealing it. Doesn't work." His hand flicked out, grabbing for the flute and re-securing it with sharp movements as he began to walk away. The flute vibrated on his hip. "Let's move on, Aziraphale. They might have created new food and gotten rid of the old by the time we arrive."

Aziraphale snorted a laugh, the lines of worry in his face smoothing. "What? Don't be ridiculous!" He picked up his pace though beside Crawly.

"See? Everything's always ridiculous to you!" Shaking his head and trying to fight a fond smile, Crawly kept his eyes on the road ahead of them. The flute vibrated at his hip, and he tried to ignore the feeling of that one, pure note to no avail.


	4. Chapter 4

"Did you know, Crawly, that they have a specific way that all meals must be organized by their taste? These tastes all bring something specific to the palate during eating." Aziraphale dipped flat-bread into a spiced sauce and then popped it into his mouth with a pleased expression as he spoke.

They sat on simple chairs, a table in between them, sharing a meal that mostly Aziraphale ate. Crawly grunted, far too engrossed in watching the way that Aziraphale was audibly enjoying his food with little moans to hone in on the substance of his words. He waved a hand around as he responded. "Go on. You want to explain."

There was a little wiggle to Aziraphale's shoulders, and he, with a pleased, closed-mouth smile, lowered his hand holding the food. "Every meal must consist of the flavors of sweet, sour, salty, pungent, bitter, and astringent. It's required. It has something to do with a true self and consequences of some sort. I'm not clear on it just as I'm not quite clear on—"

"On why humans do anything for any reason," Crawly interrupted. "Pungent, bitter, and astringent? That doesn't sound pleasant. i thought humans were all about 'recreating Eden'." He brought up his hands and did the first-ever air quote which wouldn't catch on for another couple centuries.

Aziraphale pouted at his interjection, but didn't pay mind to his mockery. "Well, without those flavors that aren't pleasant, how would you know how to enjoy the others that are? Some people like those flavors, Crawly. I don't mind them!

"Pungent just means something has a strong smell. Certain cheeses are quite delicious and carry the scent up into your nose. Bitterness can be lovely when paired with salty. They bring out the flavor of each other," Aziraphale explained, smiling, "and astringent carries that dry feeling to your tongue. It makes a drink that much more refreshing."

So saying, Aziraphale brought up the cup of wine and took a drink, sighing with his eyes closed. He performed a slow stretch of his body downward that Crawly was sure curled his toes where they rested under the table. Crawly wanted desperately to touch him as the flute at his waist vibrated hard enough he was sure it was audible.

Aziraphale did not react, and Crawly picked up his own wine and drained it. He did want to touch him. He'd wanted to since he'd first seen him react to tasting something. He didn't understand how such a pleased expression on Aziraphale's face could twist up Crawly's insides.

Aziraphale had, over the last week, sampled many different foods that smelled stinging or cloying to Crawly's senses. Sometimes he did not like a certain food, but most of the time he melted in his seat, eyes closing as if someone had dropped divinity onto his tongue. 

Crawly wished Aziraphale's divinity would drop on his— 

His attention to Aziraphale was broken as the sound of pattering feet on the edges of his perception turned into a scuffle on dusty rock, a cry of surprise that was high and young on the air, and the sound of someone impacting the ground.

Turning his head, he scanned the scene to the left of them. Three children huddled around a fourth on the ground who clutched her knee between her two hands, tears already starting to stream down her chubby cheeks.

Crawly didn't consider further. Standing, he moved toward the group, mostly ignored by the adults around them presumably because these were not their children. One of the children turned, warily watching the black-robed, pale-skinned man approach. Crawly slipped right between them, smiling as he knelt down near the girl and ignored the boys around her.

"She just fell! We were playing catch," cried one of the boys with a defensive edge.

"Are you okay?" Crawly held out a hand, softening his face with a smile. "I won't hurt you." If he laced his words with a bit of power, it didn't harm the child.

A tiny hand, scraped at the pad of her thumb, slid into his own. He was careful not to brush on the red wound. "I fell. I was chasing them."

"You almost got them too," Crawly agreed. "Let's get you on your feet. Check you over."

His hand was there was a guide as she clambered to her feet. Her lips pressed into a pout. "It hurts."

"Stings, doesn't it? It stings when I fall too. You want to catch the boys though, don't you? Look. They're just standing there. You could grab them now." With a wicked grin, he winked at the girl. Her knee was more scratched than the hand he held, but she was leaning her weight on it properly. Nothing was broken, just bruised.

Humans were as resilient as they were imaginative.

The girl's eyes sparkled, Crawly's grin infectious as she looked at the boys with clear intent to use her moment of weakness, and their moment of concern, against them. The three boys recognized that intent a moment later, eyes wide and shrieking out as they scattered.

The hand slipped from Crawly's without a thought as the girl chased down one of the boys, their delighted cries fading as they rounded a corner.

Rising to his feet, he brushed at his robes to dislodge the dirt, feeling a shadow fall over him that directed some of the heat of the sun away. "They're so delightful, aren't they?"

He turned to stare at Aziraphale, raising a brow at the question. "I like them," he admitted. "They're going to do a lot in this world, all of them, no matter if they believe in Her or not."

Those lips pressed thin as Aziraphale glanced toward where the children had run off. "Yes. They will."

The verbal admission was surprising, but Crawly took it with an appreciative bow of his head. "The children are the best of them. They ask a lot of questions. Full of potential." A vision of small, bloated bodies swam before him, making his chest ache. "They haven't done anything wrong," he snapped.

He hadn't intended to turn the conversation in that direction, but now the comment hung in the air between them.

Aziraphale heaved a sigh, turning his eyes toward Crawly again. The sad look in them echoed the feeling in his chest. "Crawly…."

"Don't. You didn't like it either." His whisper strained the space between them as he hunched forward, his angled and long body trying to fold smaller.

Aziraphale's lips pressed thin again, and his hands flitted to clasp one another at the front of his robes, rubbing over his knuckles. The motion was soothing to watch. "Did you know about what was going on? Before I mean?"

Crawly frowned. He'd heard things. He'd been in the region for some time, dipping into this temptation, asking questions that came to him when the stories were told of times before. He'd spent some time even with Noah's family, nights over a fire with companionship and tales he'd loved to embellish on. The tale would become something else other than the truth.

"I heard things. There was rumor and gossip. The women were getting pregnant, had children and wouldn't say who the fathers were, or they would run away in the night." He'd watched over those children that had stayed. They had been built differently than the other children. They'd been called giants. As they grew into adults, they tended to isolate themselves. Those that did not could show an aggressive streak that frightened people.

Crawly had stayed around them anyways, listening to them and sharing their frustration in unanswered questions. Their children had braided his hair

"Rumors were they ate people." He sneered. "Did you hear those rumors? Rumors were that it was my kind that made the women pregnant." He waved a hand in the air to dismiss those rumors. "I never heard anything from Hell about it."

"I know the rumors," Aziraphale confirmed. "People were terribly cruel. The Flood—"

Crawly's pointed at Aziraphale's nose, his finger an inch from it. "Don't you dare excuse it! I knew those people!"

Blue eyes went wide with realization. "You-you were there? The entire time? But you said—"

"I didn't say anything," Crawly pointed out. "Shem talks when he's drunk. Asked him what they were building." He dropped his hand to his side, shifting his body away from Aziraphale. His eyes were wary.

"Oh. I hadn't—" Aziraphale heaved another sigh. "Crawly, I wasn't going to excuse the Flood." His fingers pulled at his robes, and his expression was thick with sincerity.

The expression he shot Crawly begged him to be believed. He still looked sad, but the look carried something heavier with it. The flute vibrated at his hip, and Crawly wanted to step closer to him, tilt his head back with a finger under his chin and— 

Crawly choked, stepping away from Aziraphale. "You weren't going to condemn it either," he mumbled, but his words lacked heat.

The silence was answer enough as Aziraphale's eyes shifted downward to stare at his sandaled feet. Crawly watched his face, the brows that furrowed, the way his lips pursed. His nose even wrinkled in consternation.

The air was heavy between them, and Crawly could hear the internal struggle Aziraphale was having. Didn't it feel familiar to him? Didn't he want to offer some kind of comfort? "Don't worry about it. I know what you mean," he offered.

Aziraphale's blond curls swayed as he stared at Crawly. "What? But—"

Waving a hand, Crawly sighed. "Don't worry about it. Finish your lunch. I'm going to find a room at an inn. Could go for a sleep tonight. I'll come back and collect you."

"Oh, you don't have to—"

"I'm not," he enunciated, teeth bared and eyes intent. "I am getting me a room and finding us a good place to drink late into the night. We can talk about...anything else."

Aziraphale's face relaxed, the hands stilling as he beamed at Crawly. "Oh that would be nice. We haven't done that in a century." He apparently was going to ignore Crawly whenever he got churlish. Crawly couldn't say he didn't appreciate it.

Crawly nodded, staring at those pert lips turned up at the corners. They could talk about anything at all for hours, smiling and laughing or even arguing. He liked that, even with the centuries that could separate them. He smiled back as something inside him uncurled from its tight ball. "I'll come get you in a moment. Let me...have a couple hours."

Aziraphale smiled. "Of course, my dear." Turning, he trotted back to his plate of food, leaving Crawly to stare at him with wide eyes.

Before Aziraphale could turn around and see the shocked expression on his face, Crawly spun around and walked away. They were still near the river, so the port at this city had made it a trade hub. It meant the press of humans was thick, loud, and humid, and he could get lost in it, his thoughts drowned by the noise.

At least, he wanted his thoughts drowned. 'My dear' reverberated through his head. He didn't remember Aziraphale calling him that before, but it had sounded so natural and smooth that Crawly was searching through the moments they had run into each other. This was the first time.

More surprising, he liked it. He liked the feeling it brought with it. It was more than just the vibration from the hip, wasn't it? Or maybe — and this made a chill run down his spine — maybe it was just the flute.

Crawly stopped in the middle of a busy intersection of people, frowning as the traffic pushed past him. He was struck by passersby twice before he moved to the side, cutting through the people to press his shoulders into a wall.

He clutched the flute at his waist, pulling it until he the string went taunt. His breath was coming in short gasps where he pressed against the cool stone. It felt so deep, whatever this was muddled at the core of his being. Was it the flute, tangling him up inside with one solid note? Was the flute not at fault?

Which was more frightening?

The panic that washed over him was like the Flood that had washed over bobbing heads on the water's surface. He was suffocating.

Sliding along the wall, he slipped around the corner and continued to feel the stone wall under his palms as he went further into the alley, until the darkness pooled around him and his shadow was gone.

"Just what exactly are you trying to do," he hissed as he unhooked the flute and glared at it. "What are you?" Aziraphale said he could feel it was different. Miracles didn't work on it, and it even smelled wrong.

The flute didn't respond verbally. It did begin to vibrate, until he could see it shaking in his hands. The feeling inside him swelled like a wave that would crash over him and send him stumbling into Aziraphale's arms.

The flute made a dull clunk as Crawly threw it at the wall. It did not shatter as he'd hoped. It bounced onto the dirt and rolled away from him. He stared at it with a curled upper lip, wiping the hand that had held it on his robes.

"Did it upset you, friend?"

He was going to shoot Hellfire out of his fingertips! His tongue flicked out and then back into his mouth as he categorized the scent. "Are you following me?"

Takshaka's smile looked as slick as it had earlier. Crawly trusted it as much as he had a week ago. "Yes. I told you I would."

Crawly was not going to admit he had a point and would continue to be offended. Pushing off the wall, he reached down to grab the flute and retie it to his waist. "I'm not giving you the flute."

"No, but it is bothering you. Did it just start, or has it been doing it often?" The man who was not a man slithered closer, his hands pressed behind him.

Stiffening, Crawly shrugged. "Don't know what you mean. Told you the thing's broken. Do you even know anything about it," he accused, turning to face the other man.

Takshaka's smile was friendly, teeth exposed to reveal fangs among the flat, human-shaped ones. "I've only been trying to get close enough to take it for a month now. Then you walked right up and stole it. It was frustrating and is still frustrating, but I'll get over it. If we're going to talk more freely, we should do it elsewhere."

"You're obviously a bad thief." He snorted, twisting his lips into a sneer as his nose pointed up. "Fine. Let's go elsewhere. I'm looking for an inn with good drinks."

"Ah, I happen to know this town at least well enough to help you there. I know a quiet little inn where the drinks are heavy and the food is hot. Your friend likes food, doesn't he?" Takshaka half-turned toward the street, pausing with a smile and wink.

If Crawly had hackles in any form, they would have raised. "Let's not talk about him," he hissed.

Takshaka's eyebrow rose, but he nodded with a placating smile. "A rule between us I will respect. I am sure once I tell my story you will understand I mean that. Shall I lead? Walking in front you can keep both eyes on me." That smile brightened, encouraging in a way that only unsettled Crawly. "And, if you don't mind, do you have a name?"

Nodding, he waved a hand in front of him. "Crawly." Takshaka, inclined his head in thanks and turned without hesitation.

Exiting the alleyway, they slipped into the press of people that had thickened with evening descending. Takshaka remained in sight ahead of him, not glancing behind him to check, but his cobalt robes marking his path through the throng.

They took a couple turns on the roads before Takshaka stopped before a two-story brownstone building. "There. I've only been here once, but the beds are free of bugs, and they make a delightful fruit rasam."

Moving to the door, he opened it and stepped inside, walking straight to the bar and sitting down. He didn't glance at Crawly, but all of his inaction did nothing to soothe.

Crawly walked to a stool next to Takshaka and sat down, glancing around. It was small in a cozy way, the heat coming from the area behind the bar alongside the smells of food marking it as the kitchen. "Wine. Red. Make sure it isn't chilled," Crawly called to the man who came out of the room to greet them.

The man shot him an offended look that didn't lessen as he turned his gaze to a chuckling Takshaka. "My friend doesn't mean insult with his brusque manner. Sura for me, please. He would like a room also."

"Two rooms," he snapped, pressing his lips thin as he felt Takshaka's eyes lock on him.

They were both silent until the drinks were served, the bottle of red in front of Crawly with a glass while a clear yellow liquor with a cup was set before Takshaka. They both poured and drank before Takshaka spoke. "Where do you hale from?"

"Shinar," came the easy answer. The wine had a different flavor than the ones he knew. There was a hint of the same spice the food carried. "This place is a nice change of scenery." He would keep the topic neutral until Takshaka dropped the small talk.

"Everyone needs a change." Crawly glanced over at the somber tone. "I wonder, if I went to your place, if I would realize I needed a change too."

Shrugging, Crawly took a longer drink of his wine. "Maybe. Maybe you'd miss it.." If he closed his eyes he could still see the aftermath of the flood. He could also remember before that: the laughing and dancing with all the imagination and passion humans had.

Were they rebuilding now?

"I likely would. I don't know if I could travel. All I know and have loved is here. I think, without the memories to ground me, I would wander aimlessly." Takshaka tilted his head and smiled. "Would you want to hear my story? Not all of it. I doubt you care that much, if at all, but enough it will explain things?"

"I don't care about you explaining why you want it," he muttered, ducking his head so he could inhale the scent of the wine. He knew the alcohol wouldn't stave off whatever the flute was doing, but it wasn't reacting to Takshaka's words. He needed it to be still so he could think. "But I'm drinking. You can talk while I drink."

Takshaka nodded, a smile gracing his lips. He took a drink of his sura before speaking again. His eyes had taken on a particular glaze that meant either the alcohol was strong or his tolerance wasn't. "I had a family once. I had a wife and many children. Brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles, spanning generations. I had tasks for my master, and I did them as best as I could. All I wanted was the lives of my family to continue."

Crawly poured himself another glass of wine, watching the thick brows draw down as Takshaka grimaced. He could guess how well that desire had been met.

"I made enemies with my missions, whether they succeeded or not. At one point, they grew angry enough to burn my home. No one escaped." He raised his cup to his lips and took a long drink. Crawly followed his lead as the bitterness rang too close to his own.

Takshaka didn't say anything more, and Crawly knew he was supposed to speak up here. Humans said words of comfort to each other, or apologized, but neither of them were human. He could only question. "Do you ever wonder what the point was? You made a home and a family, and then in an instant it was wiped away. What was the point?

"What's the point of having anything, of creating anything, when it can all be erased with a swipe of a hand? And why? What was so bad about it that others had to be punished, that everyone had to be punished?"

Takshaka was silent for a moment, his gaze solemn before he leaned in, smiling gently. "I feel like you understand me, Crawly. I do sometimes wonder, and it is dangerous to wonder too much." He rolled his cup in his hands. "I need the flute. I don't have a lot of time left. If I don't give the flute to my master, he will destroy me. "

"I can't give it to you. Are you going to fight me over it?" Crawly narrowed his eyes, wondering how quick he could miracle them outside the city. He had a feeling fighting Takshaka wouldn't be done the human way.

Takshaka shook his head. "Not you, no. There will be a fight though. There are prophecies, you see."

"Aren't there always?"

Smiling sardonically, Takshaka nodded. "Unfortunately. I did not expect to meet someone who felt so closely related. I know some of the flute. It is a weapon and a balm. Typically it affects people by calming them, somewhat like our snake charmers, and since it was made by a divine being, it can affect other divine beings. That is why, I think, you are feeling its effects."

"So," Crawly reasoned, "it can affect you."

"That's true," Takshaka conceded, "but do you know how to use it?" He glanced toward the door. "I must leave you." Draining his mug, he set it on the counter. "I shall stay close. You can say my name when you are ready to give the flute to me." Rising from the stool, he turned to head out the back door Crawly had not seen.

"Wait," he interrupted, standing from his own seat. Aziraphale must be coming if Takshaka was leaving so suddenly. "I'm not giving this to you, so what are you going to do?"

He stopped, turning his head to smile at the question. "That would be spoiling the ending of our story here, Crawly. I can't do that. Things will happen as they are meant to. In the end, it's all rather ineffable."

Crawly opened his mouth to curse the creation of that word, but Takshaka was already closing the door behind him. Crawly turned so that when Aziraphale stepped into the room, they were both staring at each other.

Aziraphale stopped in the doorway, his hands moving to his robes to pluck at it. The edges were becoming frayed. "Ah, were you leaving? I know you said you'd come get me, but I figured I could look for an inn with a good bar too. They recommended this place."

Crawly shook his head, raising his wine glass and gesturing to the stool Takshaka had vacated. "Nah. Was just getting us drinks. The wine here is tasty." He sat back down on his stool, frowning hard at his drink.

Stopping in front of the bar, Aziraphale frowned. "Crawly, was someone else here?" His hands were pressing against the wood of the counter, the empty glass and pitcher of sirah still on it.

"Same guy who talked to me last time. He says he's running out of time. He's going to do something, but of course he didn't say what. Said something about a prophecy." He waved at the man behind the counter to bring another glass for Aziraphale. He was not going to mention anything being ineffable.

"Did he say anything about what the prophecy said," Aziraphale asked with naked interest. 

Shrugging, Crawly poured Aziraphale some sirah from Takshaka's abandoned pitcher. "Here, try this. No, he didn't. He seems to know what will happen though."

Aziraphale continued to stare at him, pursing his lips in a way that Crawly knew meant he was assessing his words. He kept silent this time, instead of demanding Aziraphale say something. He felt a bit numb at the moment.

This was supposed to be a simple grab and run mission. It was supposed to be a break from the Flood and all the shit that had come with it. Instead, he was reminded of it constantly, and the flute was doing something to him.

He didn't want to think about what the something was. He wanted to drink.

"Aren't you worried, Crawly? He's going to try to take it from you." Aziraphale's voice cut through his fogged mind.

Scowling, he waved a hand in the air. "Of course I'm worried! He said this thing isn't human-made, which we already knew, but he confirmed it." There was no way he was telling Aziraphale what the flute might be doing to him. "I have a plan." He turned and tapped the side of his head.

It was frustrating that Aziraphale gave him a raised brow to indicate his wariness. He folded his hands onto his lap in a motion that said he was listening, at least.

"Listen, I don't know why Hell wants me to keep the flute away from its owner for a month. I plan on finding out though. I'll just ask locally until I find out what big thing a divine tool could possibly be used for.

"You—" He paused. His plan hinged on Aziraphale too much for him to feel comfortable with this part. "You're good with prophecies and scrolls. I know you've been greedy to get your hands on the written word since humans started writing." Never mind how he knew. "You can look for this prophecy. We can find out what Takshaka is going to do."

"Or just what's going to occur that would mean he gets a chance to take the flute."

"Exactly," Crawly paused and gaped at Aziraphale. "You're going to help me?"

"I'm not," Aziraphale pronounced, "helping you. What I am doing is ensuring that at the end of this month, in three weeks, I will be getting the flute to return it. I won't be getting the flute if Takshaka takes it."

"Oh. Right," Crawly breathed, swallowing the thanks that wanted to leave his lips as the flute vibrated.

The lines around Aziraphale's eyes and mouth softened. He nodded then, and Crawly felt a sense of understanding between them. "You're lucky I came along, Crawly. You wouldn't been in quite the mess without me," he quipped primly, glancing down into his wine with pursed lips.

Crawly fought the smile playing at his lips, shrugging as he grumbled into his cup. "While we're doing that, I can make sure you're sampling the best to be had here." Smirking, he watched as Aziraphale's brows twitched, attempting to keep his face straight as interest fought with his imperious expression. "They make a good fruit rasam here."

"Do they," Aziraphale cooed, wiggling his shoulders as the excitement of some new dish to try prevailed.

Crawly's grin was smug. "And you should try their sura." He pointed to the cup Aziraphale held in his hands. "Some kind of alcohol."

Aziraphale's shoulders wriggled as he smiled with pleasure, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I shall. And then I shall have some of the wine as well."

As Aziraphale called the bartender to order a fruit rasam, Crawly relaxed in his seat, confident they'd find out what was going on.

Whatever this prophecy said, he was sure they could work together to figure it out before Takshaka was able to act. He would keep the flute away from whatever Hell wanted it away from, and Aziraphale would return it to its owner.

Everything would turn out fine.


	5. Chapter 5

When he looked at Aziraphale, he really saw nothing else. He didn't see the people sitting in tables around them. He didn't see the candle on the clothed table between them, flame flickering in the air. He didn't see the food or the wine or— 

The offending flute did not stop vibrating no matter how many layers were wrapped around it. Aziraphale — the reason the damned thing vibrated at all — sat across from him, picking at a piece of some kind of seasoned meat with his fingers and slipping bits of it between his lips.

Crawly could feel the edges of his mouth tipping downward alongside the crease in his brow. The tension in his neck increased as he strained not to lean toward Aziraphale. Why should he deny himself? Aziraphale was right there. He could reach out and touch him.

"Found out anything," his voice snapped, cutting the air between them. His hands tensed around the wine cup between them. He hated drinking. It didn't dull the feeling of the flute vibrating through his bones.

Being sober felt worse.

Aziraphale paused with food on his fingers held aloft. His hand moved to rest on the edge of the plate. "About a prophecy? I've found a temple that contains manuscripts that might yield results. You?"

"Yeah. There's a war on." Crawly's tone remained unhappy, but given what he'd said, that wasn't out of place.

"Oh!" Aziraphale's voice carries, and the people around them turn to look. Aziraphale waves a hand in the air and they turn away as if disinterested. He lowers his voice. "A war? Whatever for?"

"It's," Crowley explains, raising his hand only to realize Aziraphale took care of the people noticing them, "a human thing." He lowered his hand.

He was separating it from a Heaven or Hell thing because that would be something they could be sucked into. "They were playing a game of dice," Crawly continued. "The bets became extravagant, and one lost to the other. Think there was some cheating involved, but that's not a surprise." He'd tempted enough humans to cheat to know how easy it was. "End result was the loser and his people were exiled for thirteen years from their land.

"The thirteen years ended, and the winner refused to give the land back and," Crawly faltered, tiling his head as he considered the right word, "unexile them."

"So they're going to war over it?" Aziraphale frowned, taking another drink of his wine. "They always go to war over land…."

Crawly nodded in agreement with Aziraphale. "Yeah. Word is that there's supposed to be a meeting with the guy who won the betting. Guess they're trying to come to terms."

Aziraphale's lips pursed. "Do you think that's what the flute is for? Keep it away for a month so war happens? That sounds like something your lot would like." His lips curled into a disapproving frown, as if Crawly regularly encouraged humans to large-scale war.

"Not me. Wars are messy. You can get caught in them. I almost did one time," Crawly admitted. He held up his hands and smacked them together. "Literally almost squished between them!"

Leaning forward, Aziraphale's lips parted as his eyes widened. "What did you do? Did you turn into a snake?"

Crawly waved a hand, raising up the pitcher to refill Aziraphale's glass, which earned him a nod of things. "Nah. I haven't done that since the Garden. I don't like to do that."

"You don't like to?" Aziraphale ducked his head down as Crawly glanced up at him. "I don't mean to pry. Of course you can not like something." He picked up the cup and took a drink. "Thank you, my dear."

That was the second time Aziraphale had said it. It didn't mean much that he was counting it, but he was counting it. "It's not just that." At Aziraphale's interested look, he continued. "Well, might forget how to change back," he admitted. "Plus, not a lot of reflective surfaces that are...reliable. Might get it wrong."

"That would be rather disastrous, wouldn't it?" Aziraphale set his elbow on the table, propping up his head on his hand as he smiled. "If you ever need to change though, and I'm nearby, I'm sure I could help somehow."

Clearing his throat and ducking his head, Crawly felt the offer creep into his chest without permission. The vibration from the flute continued unabated. "Yeah. Thanks. So, um, I found out other stuff too. I mean, about the flute."

"Do tell!" Aziraphale's face lit up with the excitement of discovery. His fingers twitched where they held his chin, and Crawly imagined him wanting something to carve his discoveries into for future reference.

"Yeah. It was something Takshaka said, and then I think the rumors I heard confirmed it." He rapped his hand on the the table and nodded as he collected his thoughts to make the explanation clearer. "See, Takshaka said the flute was like a snake charmer," he began, ignoring the cough from Aziraphale, "but I didn't think it was literal. Apparently, this guy is known for vanquishing demons with it."

At Aziraphale's raised brows, Crawly chuckled. "Their demons, not ours. See they have a different system in place with a different hierarchy. Demons roam around, sure, but they aren't all bad, I guess? Some of them want to cause trouble, the flute calms them. That's all it seems to do: calm the bad guys."

"And it's not doing anything to you," Aziraphale insisted, his eyebrows drawing down. He hands found the front of his robes and fiddled with the cloth.

Crawly was not going to inspect that concern too closely. "Well," he hedged, glancing to the side. It wasn't convincing at all, but maybe some part of him wanted to share. He just wanted some coaxing. It was selfish, but he was a demon.

"Crawly, talk to me. Is the flute doing something? You said it was broken, but that means you played it. Then when I played it, you almost fell on your face." As Crawly shot him an embarrassed look, Aziraphale drew himself up and huffed. "Did you think I wouldn't be able to count, Crawly. Two and two does equal four. That's newly invented!"

"Fine, fine, calm down! I did hear it when you played. I didn't hear it when I played—"

"I heard it," Aziraphale interrupted.

"You...what? You heard it when...I played it?" Crawly's eyes went wide as he leaned back, pressing his palms into the table.

"Actually I heard it both times." Aziraphale ducked his head this time. "The first time it was from across the river. I followed the sound to it and there you were, on the other side. I had no idea at the time that it was you playing. Now it doesn't do anything to me, but it does something to you," he prodded.

"It...does?" Crawly shrugged. "It just shakes." He took the flute off its string and held it up. It was trembling faintly. "See? It's been doing that for weeks."

"That doesn't sound good. It's supposed to either calm you or destroy you? Do you— Of course you might not know, but do you think it's doing anything?" Aziraphale lowered his face and leaned in until his eyes were level with the flute.

"Yeah. I mean it's doing something, but it doesn't hurt. It's annoying. I can't rest. It doesn't let up with vibrating. It gets softer and then more intense. It doesn't stop. I don't think it's bad. If it's charming me, it must be failing because I'm already so charming."

Aziraphale's flat look was enough to answer how far that answer goes to easing his concerns. "Anything that the flute might be doing could be dangerous to you. You'll excuse me if I'd like to make sure you're going to be alright as soon as possible, my dear."

He ached to tell him how much he loved hearing that. He opened his mouth to do exactly that— 

-and slammed it shut so hard he bit his tongue. "Shit!" He poked his slit tongue out of his mouth, tearing up wincing with teary eyes as he grasped it. The pain was a new sensation that shot through his mouth as his tongue pulsed.

"Are you alright?" Aziraphale jumped from his seat at the exclamation, leaning over Crawly with drawn brows.

He was much too close. Crawly tried to lean back, but he couldn't move far without toppling off his chair. "I'm fine! I'm fine." He paused. "Is it bleeding?" He stuck his tongue out, his concern for an injury overriding his discomfort.

Aziraphale made a tsking sound. "I don't think so. No, no it's not. I've bit my tongue before too. The pain will fade." A smile suffused his face, hands on his knees as he stared at Crawly. "My tongue always gets in the way when I eat." Then he stuck his own tongue out at Crawly.

Blinking, Crawly finally did lean, his chair tipping backwards but balanced. He stared at Aziraphale's tongue as it vanished back into his mouth. Aziraphale's smile was infectious, and he couldn't help smiling as well, letting his chair right itself again.

Those curved lips, so pert and pink, were inviting. The vibration at his hip became a vibration throughout his body. He felt warm. He felt overtaken by an urge to close the distance and press their lips together.

It would be so easy to kiss him.

"Let's go to the temple, Crawly. I'll study some of the manuscripts about this flute and its effects. I'm sure if there's a prophecy, the flute will be mentioned there, so I can do some cross-referencing."

Jolted back to good sense, Crawly nodded automatically. Aziraphale turned to leave, but Crawly sat in his chair, staring after him as he wondered how he could have thought of just kissing Aziraphale. He couldn't just kiss him!

"Crawly?"

He stood jerkily, realizing he'd waited so long that Aziraphale had stopped to wait for him. "Yeah. Coming." He hurried after him, slowing down to walk beside him as they moved out of the restaurant. He could feel Aziraphale's gaze on him, and when he glanced over, he saw the concern on his brows again. "It is the flute, Aziraphale. Don't worry about it."

"I will. What if Takshaka comes while you're in that daze and takes the flute?" Aziraphale pushed out his lips in a pout, and while he had a good point, Crawly knew that wasn't an issue.

"It's— You're here, right? You can snap me out of it." He grinned as the buildings around them changed from businesses to ones decorated with more religious iconography. There was a building not far ahead. It had tiered sides and an open archway that led dramatically to its huge doors.

"That's awfully ni—" Aziraphale stopped, glancing toward Crawly, and swallowed. "You have faith in me. I appreciate that."

Crawly knew why he'd stopped. He was glad he had. He didn't know how he'd feel about being called nice. The word stuck in his throat and made his chest burn. He thought, maybe, it was more that Aziraphale might think he was nice and not just that he might be nice.

"Yeah, well, having faith in an angel isn't a far stretch or anything, just don't spread it around. Downstairs wouldn't be fond of the idea." Shrugging, he hid his hands in his black robes before he nodded ahead of them to change the topic. "That's the temple? What do they do there? Not the same thing as where we're from?"

"Actually it can be alike. I mean obviously they don't believe in Her. I don't think they've even heard of Her. I only spoke to one of the men inside for a little bit, just to secure access to the manuscripts." Aziraphale waved a hand towards the doors as they ascended the stairs.

"Uh-huh, no miracles used there, huh?" Crawly side-eyed Aziraphale and grinned. "He just trusted you and said 'yeah, you can read all our sacred texts'?"

"I'll have you know, my dear, that I have a trusting face!" His lips thinned, nose tipping into the air as he opened the door and stepped inside. There weren't many inside, and there was no one at the door to bar them. "I simply said I was visiting and wished to look over their manuscripts."

Crawly raised a single eyebrow, and relented as Aziraphale's shoulders slumped under the scrutiny. "Sure you did. Anyone would let you look at their manuscripts."

Snorting at the inanity of the statement, Aziraphale pointed to the side. "I believe we'll have better luck looking at things from this age."

"Yeah? That's a lot of manuscripts." Crawly stared at a row of shelving that stood taller than him, filled with manuscripts in a form he didn't recognize. They looked like thin wooden boards.

"Nonsense. You start from the right and I'll start from the left."

"Oh, no!" Crawly held up both hands to ward off the task. "No, no. I do not read. No. You do the work. You'll be faster. Do your — what did you call it — cross-referring?"

"Cross-referencing." Aziraphale pursed his lips. "Just sit somewhere, my dear, and don't get in my way."

Crawly had enough pride to scoff at Aziraphale, but he moved into the temple proper to look over the objects that either represented holy things or were holy things. He grew quickly bored. He didn't know what any of them were, there was no one to really talk to, and all he could do was watch Aziraphale take an armful of manuscripts to a nearby table and sit reading them.

Actually, that was interesting enough to keep his attention. Slouching in a nearby chair, he laid his head back and observed Aziraphale. This seemed like a natural thing for Aziraphale, sitting and reading manuscripts. He was relaxed. His face was set pensive and quiet. Every once in a while, a surprised expression would cross his face, Crawly would sit up, and then Aziraphale would turn to another manuscript.

He was doing that cross-referencing thing, and Crawly had to relax again. He would call him when he was done.

He didn't realize he had dozed off watching Aziraphale until the squeal of children's laughter shattered his nap.

Sitting up as he rubbed his sleep-worn eyes, Crawly grimaced, wondering if the adults kept any eyes on the children at all. One glance toward the door and the grimace relaxed. It was a different town with different kids, but the tag game was universal. The children were racing around pillars when they probably — given the darkened state of the sky outside the ajar door — should have been asleep.

Glancing over at Aziraphale, he smiled. He was still bent over the manuscripts, a smaller stack than what had previously been there. Standing, he stretched as he called out to him. "Found anything, Aziraphale?"

Hearing his name drew him out of his study, and Crawly finished stretching to find him staring at him. "Almost, I think. Some of these references are no good, but there's a lot of stories about someone named—"

"You'll tell me about it when you're finished, yeah? Otherwise I'm going to have questions and distract you...and you hate being distracted but love tangents. We'll be here for the next year." Crawly's grin was fond, and Aziraphale smiled in return.

"You're quite right. Shouldn't be too long, now." He turned back to the manuscripts with that smile still in place.

With a push of his hips, Crawly got out of the seat, following the echoing noise of the children. When they saw him, the lead buy skipped to a stop, eyes wide. They all looked like they expected to be shooed out with harsh words.

Instead, Crawly placed a finger to his lips in a shushing motion and grinned at them. When they hesitantly grinned back, he pointed to himself and then hid his own eyes before he peeked out from them. "Want me to find you? I'll count to twenty."

Tiny heads nodded as grins covered their faces, eyes twinkling with mischief as the children giggled and scattered. Crawly let out a bark of laughter, which caused the chorus of laughter to rise higher with anticipation.

Far be it for him to discourage blasphemy in a holy place, kids running around with the chance to knock over priceless artifacts. He'd be the first to help it! Covering his golden eyes with his eyes, he began to count off the numbers. "One...two...three—"

"Crawly, I think I figured it out!"

Crawly had only the warning of the doors, which previously had not made any noise, squeaking on their hinges. He felt the presence of Takshaka — that lying bastard — before he brought his hands down and turned to see him slide into the temple.

They noticed each other at the same time, stilling in indecision. Then Takshaka's gaze moved to where Aziraphale was.

Crawly took two steps toward him, his intent to usher him outside, but when Takshaka looked back at him, he knew something was going to occur.

"It happens now," was all Takshaka stated before his body exploded into serpentine coils. Takshaka's torso flattened and curved upwards like the hood of a cobra, horns ripping from his back to cascade down his body.

The results of the transformation on the surrounding door and its frame were devastating. As Takshaka's coils burst forth, the doors were flung through the temple as projectiles. Crawly heard the sound of pillars cracking, glass shattered, bouncing around the space. Then Crawly heard the children screaming alongside the exclamation of Aziraphale.

The temple rumbled threateningly before its ceiling collapsed on them all.


	6. Chapter 6

With a guttural roar, Crawly’s form exploded outward as well, the rubble that was the now ruined temple cracking and careening upward to land in other places. Dust filled the air, the city awakened with cries of anguish and shock, and Crawly didn’t know where the kids or Aziraphale was. Aziraphale could save himself, but the kids….

Lunging toward Takshaka’s bulging coils, he slid upward with his smaller, black form, his mouth stretching wide as his head cocked back in preparation to strike with venomous fangs. The upper half of Takshaka was still human, but that changed rapidly too. His arms collapsed into his torso as his neck elongated and drew back out of reach. It was clear Crawly was aiming for the base of his head, where neck met jaw and his venom would work faster.

Crawly felt Takshaka’s tail wrap around his middle, jerking him back hard enough he slipped down, trying to find purchase on the horns dotting his back without success. As Takshaka’s tail circled Crawly’s body, his face burst into scale and fur, ridges like some sea creature edging from his eyes and jaw. A long, curvy horn with a wicked point protruded between his eyes. Takshaka’s nose and mouth extended out into a rectangle, his mouth becoming a row of sharp teeth that snapped at Crawly’s nose.

When Crawly snatched his head away from the teeth, he felt Takshaka’s body spiral around his own to his neck, wrenching his head backwards to keep his fangs out of reach. Since this had been Takshaka’s plan, the coils tightened around Crawly. He gasped as he felt bones grind together inside him.

“Crawly!”

Suddenly they were not where they had been. The ruined temple was gone, the dust cleared from the air to show the stars shining down on them. Takshaka was still crushing Crawly in his coils. His head bent down over Crawly’s, both snakes’ eyes unblinking as sharp teeth poised over his face. As they lowered, Crawly heard the piercing note of the flute ripple through the air.

Takshaka stopped moving. Even withing his body, Crawly shuddered and then went limp. 

What one note from the flute had started, the continuing sounds, rising up and down some mystical scale, continued. Crawly’s head rolled to the side as Takshaka’s grip around him loosened. Aziraphale was next to their struggling forms, flute pressed to his lips as he his fingers moved across it. His gaze was intense on the both of them.

Crawly didn’t know how he’d gotten the flute. When he transformed, it likely wouldn’t have transformed with him. As Aziraphale switched from one note to another, it didn’t seem so important. What was important was Takshaka’s coil loosening and then tightening around him spasmodically, never enough to hurt but never enough to release him either. Crawly knew how he felt. Even on this end of the song, the pulsating desire to curl around Aziraphale’s feet as if it were a safe place was over-powering.

Grunting with effort, he swung his neck around, mouth stretching to snap his fangs out as they sunk into Takshaka’s neck. He felt the constriction of the coils around him and grunted, his fangs slipping out as he felt something snap inside him, and he lolled backwards.

The flute’s notes became a frenzy, high and fast, insistently driving a stab of fear and panic into Crawly. As Takshaka unwrapped from him, staggering backwards on his serpentine form, Crawly hit the ground. He landed at just the right angle to see Aziraphale running toward him, the flute swinging at his side. At the same time, Takshaka snapped upwards, lunging toward him with his mouth hinged open. Crawly made a desperate sound, but just as the head was about to engulf Aziraphale, Takshaka careened the side, writhing as the venom took effect. He listed to the side, thumped to the ground, and went still.

Aziraphale didn’t even notice.

“Crawly! Oh, are you alright?” Aziraphale’s frantic tone sounded like the flute’s frenzied notes as he crouched next to him. Crawly shuddered again, wincing as something that wasn’t supposed to shift inside him did. Hands fluttered over his scales, and he shifted, groaning as he felt those bones begin to realign. This was as close to his demonic form as he could get, so it wasn’t nearly as fragile as his human one. He might’ve been hurrying the process as well. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. The kids—” he choked.

“They’re fine,” Aziraphale exhaled. “They all miraculously survived, Crawly.”

Relaxing into the ground, he twined around until he was pressing at Aziraphale’s feet, the flute’s insistent demands fading away finally. “Good. They have potential to grow up to be little heathens.”

Barking a laugh, Aziraphale nodded. “If they don’t find it in their hearts to be kind to others. I’d glad the flute worked. Now, can you shift back? We should leave.”

“We’re not just leaving him. You should smite him, or use the flute. It’s made to destroy his kind. My venom likely won’t do it,” he spat.

“We can decide what to do with him once you shift back.”

“I don’t remember how,” he yelled, almost cutting Aziraphale off. He ducked his serpentine head down again at his own outburst.

Sitting back on his heels, Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Ah.” He paused for a moment as Crawly attempted not to press his nose to Aziraphale’s sandals. “I did say I’d help you with that.”

“It’s a nice sentiment, but I don’t think—”

“Oh, do shut up and let me try, my dear.”

The surly tone was at once familiar and comforting, and the endearment at the end made his protests die. “Alright,” was his response. As a hand reached out toward his face, Crawly’s snake instincts made him draw his head back.

Aziraphale paused. “I probably should touch you for this. It won’t hurt. It’s just going to be pictures.”

Sighing, Crawly brought his head forward, tipping it down so Aziraphale’s hand slid over his black scales, from snout to the ridges of his brow. "Fine. Make it quick and don't snoop."

"As if I would," Aziraphale huffed. "I imagine your mind is full of wiles! I wouldn’t dare to be tempted to them!"

"Course you wouldn’t,” and if his voice was fondly amused, they both ignored it.

The fingers of Aziraphale's hand arched into his scales, pressing down doggedly. From the tips of them came a feeling he would only be able to describe as the colors blue and gold. The colors curled from his brow and into his eyes, not unlike the smoky missives from Hell meant to send him instructions. Unlike those messages, this did not come with a dull pain behind his eyes. Instead it felt like a salve he'd once had pressed to a cut on his leg.

The image that formed in his head was blurry at first. Red, long hair topped an oblong face with only a slight tan. Black, heavy robes covered a thin, long form. Details came into focus: the red deepened, curls curved around slim shoulders and down a back from which sprang black wings.

At least he could tell what time the memory was from. It surprised him when the scene shifted, drew into his face. He'd never known his eyes were wide as well as gold. The pink lips curved into a smile that showed white teeth, brimming with laughter that made his face look crooked. No, the lips were crooked in their smile, but it was warm. He felt warm looking at it.. Were his cheekbones that defined? The angle of his neck held an elegant appeal that he couldn't recall. His shoulders sloped, relaxed, and the rest of his body was hidden by the robes.

He committed the image to his memory, fixed it firmly into place as he allowed his snake form to meld into the human one Aziraphale had memorized a touch too well.

Crawly opened his eyes and stared up into Aziraphale's blue gaze. He had no right to look at him with pinched brows of obvious worry. "There—" He paused to cough. "I’m all good. You can back off now," he croaked.

"Don't be ridiculous! You're still injured!" He felt a hand clasp the back of his neck and stiffened in panic, eyes blown wide. "Stop fidgeting! You're bleeding. Let me at least wrap it. Why didn’t you heal it?"

“I was focusing on what would have been crushed ribs in this form,” he growled, but he leaned forward as Aziraphale brought a hand to the sky and then down, snapping his fingers to miracle a set of bandages and what passed for antiseptic right now. "I can’t believe he wrecked the temple like that. He said he wouldn’t come unless I called him," he grunted as Aziraphale manhandled him so he could wrap his wound.

"I don’t know why he wouldn’t lie," Aziraphale continued their earlier conversation, " if he wanted the flute in the end. He didn’t care who he hurt. We really must do something about him, I suppose." He moved away from Crawly so he could reposition his robes. Then he stood and began to walk toward Takshaka, who had shrank down to a man and was visibly panting, still lying on his side.

Crawly stood, sighing as he patted at his robes to get off most of the dirt and ground temple dust from him. “Yes,” he hissed, “but he made such a scene it’s going to draw eyes!” Drawing closer, he stared down at Takshaka before reaching a foot forward and prodding him. “You dead?”

Moaning, Takshaka hissed out, and then chuckled. “Just as…I thought. ‘Extra vision harms with charms. Entwined enchantment draws enhancement.’”

Aziraphale’s indrawn breath brought Crawly’s confused gaze to him. “That’s part of the prophecy. I found it before the temple collapsed.” His expression was thunderous as he leaned over Takshaka. “’When laughter graces sacred places’, hm? You knew when you heard the children’s laughter the flute would be there.”

Chuckling, Takshaka shifted, let out a hiss of pain, and went still again. “They’re human. I don’t care about humans.”

Crawly didn’t understand prophecies. She had created them in Shinar, and they had them in Hodu for whatever reason, but he didn’t see the need for them. Where was the free will She crowed about? He did understand one thing: kids shouldn’t be killed. “Are you saying he did it on purpose, wrecking the temple with the kids inside?” He looked at Aziraphale — who confirmed it with a nod — and then turned to snap his foot into Takshaka’s side.

Takshaka let out a surprised grunt and then a whine of pain, curling in on himself. Aziraphale didn’t react, watching with cold eyes. He held up the flute. “I think it best we do as you suggested.”

Crawly nodded, but he frowned down at Takshaka. “Want some last words?” Takshaka had probably done nothing more than manipulate him. He didn’t know if anything he had told him was real, so though his tone was mocking, his intent was for other reasons. He really had felt a strange kinship to him.

“Venom sinks but kinless uncut. Survival comes when find den,” Takshaka sang as his hand shot out, grasping Crawly’s ankle. Jerking, Crawly hopped on one foot, kicking at the appendage that clung tenaciously as he dragged Takshaka’s limp form after him. Stumbling backwards, he yelled as the hand around him sank into his skin, turning into a black liquid that crawled under his skin and disappeared under his robes. The rest of Takshaka followed, sliding toward Crawly, quicker and quicker, until the whole of him was liquid blackness underneath Crawly’s skin and then disappearing.

Scrambling to his feet, Crawly parted his robes frantically, checking his legs to find not a mark on them.

Aziraphale had taken a step towards him, the flute half-raised in uncertainly. “Crawly?”

Looking up at Aziraphale in panic, Crawly had time to utter, “What the—” before everything around him stopped. Aziraphale was poised with the flute pressed to his lips, eyes wide. A bird flying overhead was stuck with its wings straight up. There was no sound.

Then there was Takshaka’s voice as a whispered hiss in his ear. “I will become a part of you. I can live through you. I’m not alive, not truly, but I will exist. You can have what's in me: an instinct to survive.”

Whirling around to see no one behind him, he hissed and felt two of his teeth elongate into fangs as his nails turned into black-coated claws. “I don’t want it! Get out of me!”

“I cannot. Anymore than you can get rid of me.” The voice had to come from inside him. “You’ll always remember how to shift now. You’ll always carry marks of me on your body. Stopping time will always come in handy.”

Crawly snarled, whirling back to face Aziraphale. He focused on his face, frozen in concern again, and concentrated on the feeling of the voice slithering inside him. He felt it recede as he came closer, fade as his nails turned back into human pinks and his fangs retreated. Then time suddenly started and Aziraphale’s lips blew into the flute.

The note pierced him without any distraction. He gasped, reaching to grasp at Aziraphale’s shoulder and grabbing his robes under his hand. “I’m fine! It’s me, Aziraphale!”

The note halted and Aziraphale’s lips withdrew from the flute, eyes wide. “Crawly? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he breathed out. “I’m okay. He’s gone. He just— He’s dead. Just did a little something to spook me. Last hurrah and all.” He waved his hands into the air and tried for a smile. As Aziraphale continued to look doubtful, Crawly scoffed. “Come on. You can feel he’s not around, right?”

Aziraphale stood still for a moment, doing whatever he did to feel, and then he nodded, lowering the flute. “You’re right. I can’t feel him anymore. Are you sure—?”

“Let’s check on the temple and the people there. See what kind of destruction we’re looking at.” He turned and strode off from the city, which was far enough way that they wouldn’t reach it until morning.

He heard Aziraphale catch up to him a moment later. “I am going to be helping with the temple’s reconstruction. I’m not giving back the flute either.”

Grunting, Crawly waved a hand. Takshaka had been wary of approaching Aziraphale, and apparently for good reason. He was sure Takshaka’s boss, if he had one, would be too. “You wrested it from me fair and square. Will you see if you can get it back to him in time to stop the war?”

“I certainly will!” Aziraphale’s pause was tense as he tied the flute around his robes and then clutched the robes with both hands. “I have a lot of questions for him.”

Crawly slid a grin toward him, half-turning his body to face him as he walked past shrubs and sparse vegetation over packed earth. They weren’t even on a road. “Questions are dangerous.”

“Not your kind of questions,” Aziraphale retorted. “All this time and the only one who chased you was Takshaka. You don’t think that’s strange?”

Crawly shrugged. “Not really. Maybe he’s not a chasing type,” but he sounded doubtful. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Aziraphale shot him a side-eye, but Crawly looked pointedly forward now as the city came closer. “Like what?”

“River dolphins…and what kind of wine we want to get drunk on.” Crawly smirked as he gestured at the air with his hands.

A smile fought from forming on Aziraphale’s lips. “You mean the river dolphins that almost bested you? I’d love to talk about that, Crawly. And we’ll get drunk on the best wine of course. One more before we part ways.”

Nodding, Crawly grimaced. “They did not best me! I bested them!” He turned to point at Aziraphale. “Did you even see what they looked like! They looked like carnivores!”

Shooting him an amused look, Aziraphale snorted. “They do eat fish.”

Tossing his hands in the air as they continued to walk to the city, Crawly continued to rant. They poked and prodded each other affably until they reached the city. Then they continued over wine, until, some hours after sunrise, they parted way. They made no promises of when they might next see each other.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale POV chapter.

“Do be careful, that’s decades old!” Aziraphale rushed forward, taking the object in hand that thrummed with divine energy. The man he relieved it from blinked up at him and then was convinced to look elsewhere among the rubble. Sighing, Aziraphale walked to a nearby banquet table that had been set up for any preserved artifacts and iconography. There wasn’t much, though many of the manuscripts had survived.

Takshaka’s transformation had only decimated the entrance and took out two of the pillars, collapsing half of the temple and leaving the other portion standing. The children he had whisked away before pieces of building could crush them were no where to be found. Though they likely were confused. He imagined their young minds would attempt to move past the near-trauma.

“Lift that rock there, and then you’ll be able to— Yes, like that!” He beamed as the men with pulleys of rope bent to work, pausing to glance at him and take his direction. He’d insisted he was a traveling archivist who had known he would be needed here, and now they trusted in his guidance.

He’d seen and been involved in enough construction of temples that his assistance wasn’t just fluff.

Bending at the knees, he hefted up a rock slab as big as he was tall, carrying it in his arms toward where it could be put to better use. “Here, this will add some support.” He set it down at an angle, removing some of the weight the men were attempting to lift and allowing them a break. Several of them stared from him to the slab and back, but he ignored them.

“Aziraphale!”

He physically jumped as the bright, familiar voice boomed out. “Oh, excuse me,” he exclaimed to the man, turning to rush toward the man in the same robes as him that stood to the side. “Gabriel, is something the matter?” His hands moved into the folds of his clothing to grasp and twist at them. “Do I need to return to Shinar? I was just—”

“We all felt the miracle you used, Aziraphale.” Gabriel met him halfway, avoiding stumbling over the rubble as he slapped at his upper arm. “Is everything alright? What are you doing way out here?” His nose wrinkled as he looked toward the rubble. “Taking down pagan temples? Commendable, but we don’t need to out-source.”

“I, uh, not exactly—”

“Never mind, Aziraphale. I assume you’re returning to Israel soon, or Shinar, or whatever the humans want to call it.” He beamed blankly at the humans around them who only peered at them curiously as they passed. “You have a job to do. We mustn’t let the Enemy get ahead of us.”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale agreed, eyes darting uncertainly between Gabriel’s too-plastic smile and the still ruined temple. “I was hoping I could—”

“Good. That’s settled! I knew I could count on you.” Frowning, he glanced right to where the flute was tied to Aziraphale’s waist. “And don’t take any souvenirs home. You don’t know where they’ve been,” he admonished.

“Oh, no. I wasn’t going to….” His eyes went wide as Gabriel stuck his nose in the air and sniffed. “Uh, do you want something to eat?” Aziraphale could smell a certain pastry he liked on the air, but he couldn’t imagine Gabriel would want it too.

“Ugh. No. This entire place smells strange. Pagans,” he tutted as he shook his head. “Mission critical, Aziraphale. We need to be results-driven.” He gestured to the rubble. “This is good work, but let’s focus it where it matter mosts. Glad we could have this talk.”

Before Aziraphale could gather his wits from the avalanche of jargon, Gabriel was turning and strutting off. Aziraphale’s lips tightened, but he did not call out for him. It was much more desirable to let him go.

Was it wrong if he really didn’t like how Gabriel made him feel? It had to be a sign that he had spent too much time around Crawly.

Turning back to the group of men and women working on rebuilding and archiving the remains of the temple, he glanced behind him a last time, and — seeing Gabriel vanished — flicked a hand down and snapped his fingers. Maybe he couldn’t be here to make sure the temple and its priceless possessions were secured, but he could make sure everyone felt miraculously strengthened and content, kind to each other and praising whoever they desired for it.

What Gabriel didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Wiping his hands on the front of his robes, he took a deep breath and turned, traveling through the city and only stopping to grab some of the pastry he had smelled. It wasn’t as fun to eat it without a table, wine, and Crawly across from him. Did it mean something that whenever Crawly’s wasn’t asking questions or arguing, he noticed how loud the silence was?

After he left the city, Aziraphale didn’t mentally document much of what he did as he walked upriver, keeping the glistening body of water in sight as he went. Much as he spent most of his time between one mission and the next, he ate whatever he fancied, drank on the road, and spoke to passersby to keep up on the latest news. He didn’t dally as he usually might’ve to partake of any new luxury the humans had come up with.

He’d have to wait until he returned to get his nails manicured again, even though he’d seen them doing the same thing here.

“There you are.”

Much as Gabriel had startled him, so did the dark-skinned man that now walked beside him. Aziraphale stared with wide eyes, but he couldn’t figure out how he hadn’t noticed him before now. He felt him now. He didn’t feel like an angel or a demon, but he felt more than human. There was something human about the way he smiled though.

Aziraphale stopped walking. “Er, here I am?”

“I was hoping to catch you on my way back. You have my flute?” As Aziraphale continued to stare at him blankly, he smiled. “My name is Krishna. The flute is mine. Someone borrowed it, but he is missing and you have it now. May I have it back?”

The simple way he structured the words shook Aziraphale out of his confusion. “Oh, yes! That was Crawly. I don’t think he wanted to run into you. You’re said to destroy demons.” His hands fumbled at his waist, untying the flute and holding it out.

A warm hand slid into his own to retrieve it. “Thank you…?”

“Aziraphale!”

“Aziraphale. Crawly did seem reluctant to show himself. He did very good hiding from me though. You should tell him I said so.” Krishna’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, both his hands wrapping around the flute and positioning themselves as if he were about to play. He didn’t raise the flute to his lips.

“Do you—” Aziraphale paused, bit at his lower lip, and then pressed on as Krishna gave him a curious look. “Do you mind terribly if I ask you some questions? It’s just, we’re so different from each other, but there we some things that felt—”

“Familiar,” Krishna finished. “I had noticed that too. I think maybe we are not so dissimilar.” He leaned in toward Aziraphale, a mischievous twinkle to his eyes. “Did you play my flute?”

Aziraphale ducked his head. “I…I did. I had to.” His hands twisted in his robes.

“I imagine you did. It’s alright that you did. It’s a special instrument, but it plays for anyone who knows how to use it. Do you know the name of the song you played?” Krishna began to walk, continuing on Aziraphale’s original path alongside the river.

Aziraphale hurried to catch up, keeping stride beside him. “I don’t.” Krishna sounded so confident that a song played on a whim should have a name, that he thought it might be rude to tell him that’s not how music worked. “We couldn’t have been that far ahead of you. Why did it take you so long to get here?”

“I was called away on a task. King Kuru would not return the lands he had promised to King Pandu. I went to King Kuru to beseech him to give the land back peacefully.” Krishna shrugged, still smiling easily. “He tried to throw me into prison instead. I’m afraid I lost my temper.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale cried, “oh, if Crawly hadn’t stolen the flute you would have been able to prevent that! Is war going to happen?”

Krishna stared at him in consideration for long enough that Aziraphale squirmed. “Yes, war is going to happen. I am going to be involved as an adviser to an old friend.” He smiled fondly and then sighed. “To tell you the truth, Aziraphale, I let Crawly take the flute.”

“What? Why,” Aziraphale exclaimed.

Krishna laughed and then smiled. “Honestly, I was curious. I wanted to know what would happen. The war was inevitable. King Kuru would not have become reasonable, and the flute wasn’t meant to be used on him.” He stared at Aziraphale, the smile dimming slightly. “You know what’s it like, when things must happen a certain way?”

Aziraphale nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“You feel helpless.”

Aziraphale’s hand went to his chest, clutching the robes there. “Oh, oh yes. Yes, quite helpless, but I saved the children!” He had blurted it out quite before he realized it.

Krishna didn’t flinch at the outburst. “Good. That’s an act of love.” He smiled, and Aziraphale found himself smiling back.

That was what he felt, and why he found himself not minding the man — divine creature or not — walking beside him. He felt love. “Will you tell me about the flute?”

Smiling, Krishna ducked his head. "I will tell you, but you must make a promise to me."

Aziraphale’s eyebrows rose. "A promise? I suppose I can. Depending on what it is."

He waved his hands holding the flute in the air, and it didn’t seem a strange movement, as if he had more than two arms. "It’s a simple request actually. When you next see me, tell Crawly this tale."

“That does seem simple enough.” How Krishna could know he and Crawly would be together he didn’t understand, but much like naming songs, he didn’t feel like it was a thing to point out.

“Then I shall tell you,” Krishna proclaimed. “I have one great love in my life. Her name is Radha. We have been friends since childhood and have loved each other for just as long. One day, I was relaxing with a woman in a grove of reeds. Radha came upon us and transformed the woman into a reed herself. She cried out, but I comforted her.” Krishna smiled. “I told her I would transform her into a flute and keep her at my lips forever.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide as he looked down at the flute. “What— She turned a woman into a plant and that’s your flute?” He couldn’t wrap his head around the concept. He had pressed the flute to his lips, after all. He couldn’t imagine it being a woman.

Krishna laughed, reaching to touch Aziraphale’s arm, drawing him out of his thoughts. “It is a story. Stories do not have to be truth or lies.”

Frowning, Aziraphale was only more confused. He felt this was something like playing songs on a whim and being expected to name them. “But—”

Waving a hand, Krishna continued, “The truth of the flute is that it speaks a song only Radha, keeper of my heart, understands. It moves the world and bends the stubborn ear to listen when it would refuse. It is meant for my people. It is meant for them to hear it and open themselves. Only Radha has the full understanding.”

Nodding, Aziraphale watched Krishna’s eyes as he asked, “And where is Radha?”

There was a touch of sadness in his gaze as he stared back at Aziraphale. “We are far away from each other, but we are never separated. We are one. We will meet again someday.” He sounded particularly sorrowful.

“Thank you for explaining, Krishna.” Aziraphale smiled, even if he didn’t feel he understood completely. At least Gabriel was right that this land was very different.

“You won’t forget your promise?” For a moment, it was a child asking and not a man, his eyes pleading.

Nodding, Aziraphale waved a hand in the air confidently. “Yes. I will. I promise when I next see you, I’ll tell Crawly.”

“Good. We should part ways then. You need to return to where you came from, and I must prepare for a war. Don’t look so concerned. Everything will be fine.” He smiled. “You won’t quite remember this, but everything will be fine.”

“Yes. Of course,” he agreed hurriedly. He was already thinking about the trek home and if he might be able to stop at some restaurants on the way without garnering too much attention. “I shall say goodbye then. It was nice to meet you, Krishna.”

“You as well, Aziraphale. Say hello to Crawly for me.”

“I will.” But he wouldn’t remember to do that the next time they saw each other.


	8. Chapter 8

The art museum was quiet on a weekday afternoon. They weren't the only two moving from room to room, stopping in front of a painting or sculpture to give idle commentary. Unlike the rest of the patrons though, they were the only two in the building who'd been around when most of the works were created.

"I'm not sure he would've agreed with you. I’m quite sure that Picasso would have argued he loved women." Aziraphale eyed Crowley, staring over the rim of his small, round glasses.

"Course he would have, angel." Crowley barely glanced up from his notebook. It was a new one, spiral-bound in red leather with a snake-like shape etched in that hadn't been on it at purchase. "He was probably biased though, don't you think," he retorted, eyebrows rising. "I think he was human. Obviously loved some women; obviously obsessed with having sex with them all the damn time."

"Obviously, hm?" That did draw Crowley’s gaze toward him. Aziraphale's lips thinned as he wiggled his shoulders in preparation for a debate. "If it's so obvious, why do people still debate it?"

"Because they're human too?" Crowley at least sounded perplexed now. "Come on, angel. Art is sometimes an expression, but sometimes it's just art." He smirked and waited for the intended response.

"Oh, don't you dare bring Aestheticism into this! You know very well how I feel on the subject!" There was the rolling back of the shoulders, the back straightening as that fire lit in Aziraphale's eyes. 

Crowley straightened himself, his smirk firm as he closed his notebook and paid full attention to the conversation. "Oh? I mean, yeah I know, but didn't Wilde advocate for the whole thing?"

"You always bring up Oscar! That's cheating," Aziraphale whined. "We had the most horrible arguments about Aestheticism. We wouldn't talk for days afterward!" Turning his head, Aziraphale's hands twisted around each other in front of his waistcoat as he pouted at Crowley.

As effective as lobbing topics and names at Aziraphale in an effort to wind him up, that pouting look with the big eyes was more effective at stopping Crowley. "Oh, fine, fine. We've had worse arguments you know," he pointed out. "We wouldn't talk for decades."

"Almost centuries! I am so glad those days are behind us!" The pout melted into a smile as Aziraphale leaned in toward him before turning his gaze back to ‘Girl with a Mandolin’. "I guess some of his works are a bit crude," he admitted.

Twelve days after the Apocalypse that hadn't happened, Crowley snorted at Aziraphale and silently agreed he would be happy if those days really were behind them. "Charitable of you. You know I preferred Dadaism anyways. Don't they have a display of it up somewhere?"

"I know you had a hand in Dadaism. All that rebellion against the system. Really now, as if it wasn't obvious," Aziraphale sniffed. His hands relaxed as they fell to his side. They brushed against Crowley's hands for a moment.

Crowley stepped to the side, away from the touch. "Fine, we can skip that part. They've got the Gupta period in the next room." He sauntered toward the door leading to the next gallery, keeping his face forward. Everything was fine, and he could act like the accidental brush of fingers against his skin didn't make him shiver.

The shuffle of movement behind him was Aziraphale following, and he chanced a glance back to see Aziraphale's brow furrowed as he pushed out his bottom lip again. When he caught Crowley's gaze, he smiled, but it wasn't as bright as it could've been.

"Something the matter?" He stopped at the first piece in the room, tilting his head to get a better angle on the stone carved relief of Ganesh that had been taken straight out of a wall.

"Oh, no! This is all really lovely. Should we get a bite to eat afterward? Maybe stop by the bookstore for a couple glasses of wine?" He could feel the warmth when Aziraphale stepped in close to him again.

He did not shift away from him, even as his skin tingled under the sleeve of his jacket. "Got our whole day mapped out, huh," he teased, but he was nodding. "Sounds good. Couple more rooms to go. This remind you of anything?" He gestured with his pen toward the frieze.

"Quite. We were both there. It was a lot to deal with. Did anything come of Takshaka doing whatever he did to you?"

Crowley looked down at his notebook and then tilted his head to stare at Aziraphale from that downward position. "Nah. He’s dead,” he repeated from thousands of years ago. “Not entirely a bad time though. You know they argue that war didn't even happen? Or maybe it happened in another time or was bits of different wars pasted together?"

"Really," Aziraphale huffed, staring at the sculpted stone, "why would anyone make up a war?"

Shrugging, Crowley's eyes slid over Aziraphale's brow, across his nose, hesitated at his lips. The last week had been strange. Aziraphale had been insistent they see more of each other, which had been normal since the Antichrist had been delivered to the wrong parents. The desperation of that time was gone now.

They had no reason to rush, and they definitely had nothing to hide from. Sometimes Crowley would still stare at television shows or his own radio as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, but they relayed no messages from Hell.

He didn't know if Aziraphale felt the same kind of hesitancy, but the way he spoke to Crowley had changed.

He hadn't once instinctively blamed something bad on Crowley because he was a demon. Crowley found himself both missing and reveling in it at the same time. That alone set him off-balance, but the way Aziraphale looked at him— 

Turning his head, Aziraphale blinked owlishly at Crowley's gaze. His lips curved up, close-mouthed, but bright. His nose and eyes crinkled and his gaze softened. It felt like a ray of sunshine had peeked out from the clouds and struck Crowley full in the face.

"Wha-what?" He moved a foot to the right, canting his hips toward Aziraphale as he reached a hand up to make sure his glasses were firmly up. "Do I have something on my face?"

Aziraphale chuckled, shaking his head. "No, my dear. Come over this way. I see something important."

Crowley had no time to react as a hand reached out, grabbed for his own, and wrapped firmly around before tugging him further into the room. Eyes wide, he stumbled, tripped, caught himself, and walked after Aziraphale with wide eyes. "Hey…."

A teasing smile looking back at him with amused eyes. "Sorry, but it really is quite important."

They stopped before a painting, not quite of the Gupta period, but attached enough to the religious theme of the room to justify it being here. Crowley knew for a fact that Krishna did not actually have blue skin, and the female figure beside him was unknown. The damned flute he held up to his smirking lips was familiar.

It had taken a while before stories and art of Krishna had made it into London, but when it had Crowley had sulked for a good two months before he'd run into Aziraphale and drunkenly ranted about it. He remembered how Aziraphale had acted so surprised and then alarmed He had insisted they go to the museum where Crowley had spied it. Arriving there, they had already found the display over. Crowley still had no idea why Aziraphale had looked so disappointed.

The two figures in the painting now were leaning against each other, staring out at them as Krishna's flute lay poised across his lips. Grunting, Crowley glanced to Aziraphale.

He was staring at the painting with a fond expression he usually reserved for one of his first editions, but he turned away to give that same look to Crowley. "Oh, I've waited a long time for this! I wonder if he knew it would happen now?"

"What would happen," he queried, a brow rising above the rim of his glasses.

"Do you know the flute used to be a woman?" Aziraphale shifted on his feet, pulling on Crowley's hand to bring him in closer. Crowley pretended to be unaffected, but he didn't pretend to not be annoyed at his question being ignored. “At least he said that was one of the stories. He also said it didn’t matter if it was true or not.”

"No. The flute was a woman," he repeated incredulously.

"Let me tell the story!" His voice was fondly exasperated. "She used to be a woman. You see Krishna and the woman next to him, Radha, were childhood lovers. I suppose in love with each other since childhood is the better way to put it. They were separated before they could properly become, hm, together forever?"

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley for understanding. Nodding silently, Crowley's eyes darted between the painting and Aziraphale's lips.

"Krishna was sitting with a woman and Radha saw them. She turned the woman into a piece of bamboo. I was horrified when Krishna told me, but I think…he might’ve been teasing me,” He shrugged as he pouted. “I did do some research on Krishna, after you saw his painting in the museum. The stories can be a bit conflicting, but he said stories don’t have to be true or false."

Cowley stared at Aziraphale, musing over what Aziraphale said. “Sounds like a story humans made to explain something.” He didn’t always know what they tried to explain, but with questions came strange answers sometimes. The look on Aziraphale’s face as he watched him watching Krishna was pensive. "What else did Krishna say?" There had to be more to the story than just that.

"What makes you think he said anything more?" Aziraphale grinned at Crowley. He knew what that smile meant. It meant he was right, but Aziraphale was going to make him explain it.

Sighing, Crowley looked up to the ceiling as a show of the rolling eyes behind his glasses. "There's no way you wouldn't have asked Krishna about a magical flute and an encroaching war, Aziraphale."

"That's a fair point, my dear. He was a bit cryptic. Did you know he was not only considered a god of love, but also a trickster? He said the war wasn’t meant to be stopped and needed to be elsewhere." Shrugging again, he shot Crowley a smile. “I think we both had a good time, sampling food and being drunk. I mean, besides the temple fiasco.”

Crowley's own lips pursed. "Yeah, beside the entire temple collapsing, almost killing some kids, and having to fight some snake monster two times my own size, it was great fun! A real adventure." His voice was thick was sarcasm. Crowley gestured to the painting. "What happened between them: Krishna and Radha?"

"Ah," Aziraphale mused, "the stories say they never got together. Radha was married to another man. Krishna went on to do great things in his country. But they met up again, much later in Radha's life. Krishna played a last song for her on the flute. She died afterward, and he threw the flute on the ground where it shattered."

Crowley’s lips parted, turning to stare at the painting that had a saddened tinge to it now. Neither of them spoke. Aziraphale's quiet was a respectful one, but Crowley's was shocked. It wasn't the story he could see in the painting or in any of the art of Krishna and Radha smiling together. He didn't think he'd seen one of Krishna mourning and destroying the flute. It seemed like a gap in the life, a piece missing for Krishna and Radha. It was a pain he remembered.

Clearing his throat, Aziraphale looked from the painting to Crowley. "That's just one of the stories though. I thought it was the most stirring. All the stories say they never consummated their love, that it went beyond that kind of thing."

Crowley made a noise of assent, nodding as he caught Aziraphale's eyes. There was that expression again. It reminded him of the look they'd shared in Ritz almost two weeks ago now. "Aziraphale…?"

"Yes?" His voice had a particular lilt at the end that made Crowley lean in toward him.

"Want to get some food now?"

From the way Aziraphale glanced down, he was disappointed about something. Crowley couldn't think of what, but he felt disappointed too, and that made him frustrated. Aziraphale smacked his lips decisively. "Actually, let's just go to the bookshop. We'll order in and share a nice wine." He smiled, the disappointed expression sliding off his face.

Crowley was relieved, and he squeezed the hand enclosed around his. He'd almost forgotten they were still holding hands, and the reminder made his heart stutter alongside his lips. "Ye-yeah. Uh, back to, you know, your place. For the wine. Food. Company."

"Oh, yes, my dear, definitely the company." They both turned in tandem, walking through the museum and toward the parked Bentley. Crowley held the door open for Aziraphale, waiting until he was settled before hurrying around to the other side and speeding them toward the bookshop.

Aziraphale was quiet but felt content beside him, even with the death grip on the door. When they arrived, Crowley was out and around to open the door, following after Aziraphale as he opened the door.

The smell of gently aged books and Aziraphale washed over Crowley as they moved into the shop and to the alcove where they spent most of their time. The couch accepted Crowley's lanky form as he plopped into it and sprawled with legs spread out before him.

Aziraphale puttered around, getting glasses and the bottle of wine, pouring them both drinks and handing Crowley's his before settling into his chair. "Ah, that's much better. The food will be here shortly I imagine. I hope you don't mind Chinese. A little messy if it's takeout, but sometimes messy can be quite nice."

Taking a drink of the wine, Crowley rolled those words in his head before he nodded. "Yeah, yeah sometimes messy is good." Smiling in agreement, Aziraphale’s eyes remained on Crowley until he squirmed. "Aziraphale, you alright?"

"What did the flute feel like?"

Crowley had the glass to his lips, but luckily the wine wasn't in his mouth yet. He lowered his hand and reached to take off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes before he mumbled, "What?"

"Crowley, when I heard the flute by the river, it was the loveliest sound I had ever heard. I couldn’t describe it back then. I know what it felt like now…after Tadfield."

Raising his hand back up, Crowley took a drink of the wine. He let it set it in his mouth for a moment before he swallowed, absorbing the dry way it sat on his tongue. "It just vibrated."

"That’s all it did?" He smiled at Crowley, took a drink of his wine, and settled the glass on his lap, cradled in his hands. "When I held it, it didn’t just vibrate. It felt like my wings unfurling. Oh, and when I played it,” he expounded, a hand pressing to his chest, "it felt like I was love.”

Crowley swallowed with no wine in his mouth. "O-oh? That’s interesting," he hissed, losing some control over the S’s. “They don’t make things like that anymore, do they?” He didn’t know how else to respond.

The smile on Aziraphale's face gathered more warmth as he agreed. "They never really stopped. They just became less of a drama play about it all. The fantastical became something more in humans' minds and less something physical in the world."

"Yeah..." Crowley trailed off, taking another drink before he leaned to set the glass carefully on the edge of a round table cluttered with a stack of books. "Nice to not have to worry about that anymore. I mean, the stuff it can bring with it."

There was a shuffling knock at the door and Aziraphale rose, toddling out of sight to get the food.

Crowley leaned his head against the couch's back, closing his eyes. He must have drifted off slightly because when he opened them, it was to see Aziraphale's face hovering over his.

"Are you tired? You know, you don't have to deny yourself sleep on my account." The warming smile from before was on his lips, and Crowley's eyes caught there.

He didn't dare move. "Not denying myself sleep, angel."

"Oh come now," Aziraphale chided. "I certainly know that you can sleep for a time. I don't even think you're allowing yourself eight hours from leaving here every night before you're back over. You could just sleep on the couch. At least for a nap."

"You know my naps last for weeks," he shot back wryly, his smile joining Aziraphale's.

Leaning forward, Aziraphale placed his hands on either side of Crowley's head. "That's fine. I'm perfectly capable of entertaining myself with a book while you sleep."

A silence blanketed them, the stillness of the room muffling the noises of the outside world. Neither of them was the first to move closer, just like that first day in the Garden. Crowley tipped his head back as Aziraphale leaned down, their lips meeting between them.

It was sweet, their first kiss. Simple at first, but Aziraphale surprised Crowley when he leaned down further, tilted his head, and deepened it. Hands curled into his red hair, running through it before catching. It felt like he was being kept there, and Crowley moaned.

Breaking off the kiss, Aziraphale stared down with wide eyes. "Oh," he exhaled, "that was rather unexpected."

Crowley blinked open his eyes, mouth open as he stared at Aziraphale's reddened lips. "Uh, it was - I mean, um, you don't-"

"I really think I do actually," Aziraphale interjected. Crowley hadn't even been sure what he was going to say, and any notion of figuring it out passed when Aziraphale leaned back in to kiss him again.

He wasn't sure who made noise this time, but it didn't matter when one of Aziraphale's hands released his hair to slide around and down his throat, pressing under his shirt with amazing accuracy.

He didn't think Aziraphale had his eyes open at least. He was too distracted with the way their lips were sliding over each other to look. When a tongue slipped into his mouth, he shifted on the couch, trying to position his body toward both the mouth currently devouring his and the hand swirling over his chest.

Aziraphale chuckled as he leaned back this time. "Oh, I'm getting a little carried away, aren't I? You can't be comfortable like that." The loss of contact was shocking, but Aziraphale was striding around the couch, reaching down to take a hand that Crowley offered him as he sat beside him on the couch.

Turning his body, he felt a hand at his waist, guiding him as their hips pressed together, legs touching. Crowley shifted a leg underneath him, leaning over as Aziraphale met him for a third time.

This kiss was definitely more comfortable, and Crowley's hands were free, though what he wanted to do with them first was the debate. Aziraphale had no such questions, one of his hands returning to his hair to grip it firmly while the other at his hip played with the waistband of his tight pants.

As fingers pulled his shirt free, Crowley's own hands finally made a decision, curling around the back of Aziraphale's neck while the other fumbled with buttons on his waistcoat.

Miracling their clothes gone was a tempting thought, but the intimacy of undressing each other was sweet. The time it took was time they both gave each other to pull back if needed.

Crowley was becoming more emboldened by the moment as there was no hesitation. Aziraphale's hand palmed his twitching stomach, nails scratching lightly over his skin until Crowley's breath was hitching in his throat.

The tension in Aziraphale neck warned Crowley he was pulling back again, and he loosened his grip even as he felt the disappointment curl in his stomach. "Ah, so sorry, my dear. I really think we should focus on our buttons. Otherwise we might rip something."

"Don't much care about my buttons, angel. Promise I'll be gentle with yours though," he panted. He felt the hand under his shift jerk, and Aziraphale smiled wickedly, which was alarming enough except that the hand under his shirt was now pressing up against his waistcoat, pulling the cloth taunt along his back and Crowley closer to him.

"You don't care? Oh, well in that case…." The hand slithered out from under his shirt, the one in his hair joining it as they twisted into the material of his waistcoat. Crowley's eyes went wide as he realized what was going to happen a scant moment before both of Aziraphale's hands pulled in one smooth motion.

The ripping sound that echoed as the waistcoat flew apart, buttons popping off to fly around them, shouldn't have made his already hardening cock fully press against his pants, but the feel of the yank alongside the sight of Aziraphale's hands and arms bunching with muscles was stunning.

"Nnnnn…" Crowley's fingers stuttered on Aziraphale's waistcoat before both hands were scrambling to undo the buttons and push it back. He didn't appreciate the chuckle but didn't have room to complain either as Aziraphale cooperated in freeing his arms from his waistcoat. There was a break as Aziraphale's hands found the bottom of his shirt and slid it over his head. He had to let go to get his arms up and out of it. It was flung to the side as Crowley's hands went to Aziraphale's shirt, pulling it over his head.

They both took a moment to stare at their exposed chests, until finally Aziraphale pressed both palms against Crowley's chest, slipping them up and onto his shoulders. "Don't you look beautiful, my dear."

"Hn," was neither an agreement or a denial, but Crowley ducked his head to stare intently at Aziraphale's pants. Placing his hands on either side of his waist, he drew them toward his belly, rubbing at the roundness before he drifted them both down.

Tugging at his waistband, Crowley smirked and raised a brow. "Only halfway done, angel. Can't do this proper unless the bottom half is exposed."

Aziraphale wriggled his shoulders, beaming at Crowley. "Oh, my dear, it's like unwrapping a present! There is some excitement in admiring the wrapping." His hands lifted from his chest, moving directly between Crowley's thighs to press on his cock. "I do so love to open a package."

Crowley wasn't sure if the innuendo was on purpose, and he couldn't ask as he let out a keening noise and jerked his hips toward the pressure. A hand grabbed at Aziraphale's waistband, just to keep himself from falling backwards as the sensation washed over him in a rush of heat.

A hand supported the back of his head as the other continued to press, squeeze, and fondle him through his pants. Aziraphale leaned over him, head lowering to his neck. Crowley's head tipped back, making a low sound as a hot, wet tongue ran over his throat. His lips latched onto his skin, sucking until Crowley saw white.

He was sure he tried to mumble out a warning of some kind, but Aziraphale didn't seem inclined to stop as he scraped teeth against his skin and dug the heel of his hand at his trapped erection, pushing at the material until he could circle the head of Crowley's cock and stroke. Crowley let out a cry, arching upwards as he came against his pants and the firm caress of that hand.

There was a popping sound as Aziraphale released his neck, leaning back to run his eyes over Crowley as if he'd done something to be particularly proud of. He slid his hand around to Crowley's back then, lifting him up so he could lie against him, bare chests touching.

For his own part, Crowley was willing his thudding heart to remain in his chest. Mentally he was as shocked as the rest of his body. Maybe he should have expected after such a long time of only imagining this kind of forbidden contact that the occurrence would bring him to a quick ecstasy. "Fff," was his response to his entire situation.

Lips pressed where his tattoo was and a nose rubbed at his cheek. "I know I should have drawn that out, my dear, but it really was too much. You look quite beguiling when you're in the throes of passion."

This time the huff of noise that passed his lips was a recognizable sound. "Least could have gotten my pants off, angel," he mumbled.

"Oh, yes, I did make a mess of things. I suppose you'll have to pay me in kind." He didn't sound upset about that at all.

"You're a pervert," Crowley accused, raising an arm where it draped with the other over Aziraphale's shoulders.

He heard the tsking sound Aziraphale made. "There's no need for name-calling. Really!" He felt himself shifted, a hand guiding his legs to a more human configuration. "Come now. Catch your breath for round two."

"Round two?" He couldn't believe he sounded incredulous. It was apparent that Aziraphale had been hiding the sexual fiend he could be, and now that this door had been opened, Aziraphale was going to— He didn't know how to finish that analogy.

"Oh, I do hope there can be many rounds. Wasn't this delightful? You did think it was—"

Pushing himself into a sitting position, he held Aziraphale's face in both of his hands. "Angel, of course it was!" He matched the fervor of his words with his lips, coaxing them to open so he could slip his tongue inside. The noise Aziraphale made was gratifying, and he shifted, sliding onto Aziraphale's lap and rocking against his hard cock.

His hands went to Aziraphale's pants, finishing the work he had started until he was able to pull out his erection. Fingers swirling over his head, he gathered the precome there and grasped his shaft, stroking him to his base. His free hand guided Aziraphale's hand to his pants, helping him undo it as Aziraphale fucked his hand. 

Soon cool air hit his own cock, and he hissed drawing back and grinning. "How many rounds we going for, angel?"

"Oh," Aziraphale gasped, "I hadn't-hadn't planned on a part-particular number, my dear." His voice went up at the end as Crowley pushed onto his lap further, pressing their cocks together and wrapping his hand with its longer fingers around both of them.

"Making it up," he huffed, "as we go along? Good. We'll just say when."

Nodding, Aziraphale closed his eyes, leaning in to seek Crowley's lips again. Both their hips were pushing up for more friction, and Aziraphale's hand joined Crowley's, stroking both of their cocks with the added benefit of miracled lube.

Crowley didn't mind that Aziraphale knew what he was doing.

There wasn't a way to measure time as the pleasure built up between them, increased by the sharing of it. It felt as if took too long, and when first Aziraphale came and Crowley followed a moment later, it was too quick.

Chests heaving, they leaned against each other, hands wherever they had landed and not bothered by the mess cooling on their stomachs.

"Round three...in just a moment."

Crowley chuckled. "There's no rush. Have all the time in the world." Turning his head, he breathed out as he nuzzled against Aziraphale's shoulder. "You're— This is—" He couldn't push the words past his tight throat.

"I know, my dear. Overwhelming. Sudden. Lovely. Really far too long in the making, but there were perfectly good reasons." The breathe against his neck made him shiver. "Are you cold?"

"M'fine. Yeah, all those words." He brought his chin to rest on Aziraphale's shoulder and bit his teeth into his bottom lip. "This is a thing now, right?"

He felt Aziraphale shift underneath him, moved to give Aziraphale space, and felt arms encircle and hold him close as Aziraphale sunk down to lay down on the couch. His head was pillowed on Aziraphale's chest, and it was at the top of a list of the best things he'd ever felt.

"If by a thing you mean something less vague like are we lovers? Yes, my dear, I think this qualifies. I think we would have done this at your flat almost two weeks ago, but we were both too exhausted."

"And trying to not die."

"And that," Aziraphale agreed, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. "Now, should we plan out the rest of this?"

Crowley raised his head, brow wrinkled as he opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it to ask, "What?"

"The sex," Aziraphale explained, his smile was far too patient for Crowley's liking. "I wondered whether you might like to put your cock inside me or if you preferred to have a cock inside you."

"Uh— Aziraphale!" The fit of giggles did nothing to lesson Crowley's blushing. "You can't just— Blurting things out like that— Stop laughing!"

When Aziraphale leaned in to kiss his scowling lips, it did help lessen his irritation. It also helped that his hands wandered from his back down to cup his ass, groping. He certainly wasn't going to talk about it. Actions spoke louder….

Wriggling to get his legs positioned right, he smirked into Aziraphale's lips as he straddled him, angling his body to rock the curve of his ass into Aziraphale's cock. Aziraphale took the hint, hands gripping as he canted his hips toward the friction.

"Come on, angel. I'm ready for it if you are," he challenged as he broke the kiss.

Aziraphale grinned, grounding his erection into Crowley. "Well, that sounds like permission if I've ever heard it, my dear." His hands moved to spread him, nudging at his entrance with his cock.

He bit his bottom lip in anticipation and to muffle the moan that tried to escape. His hips pressed down, until he felt Aziraphale's cock sliding in. He stopped, lips parting, and exhaled noisily.

"That's right, my dear. Breathe. I'm going to push in now." His hands guided Crowley down, lube conveniently miracled where it was needed. Crowley could feel his gaze on him as he leaned his head back, closing his eyes to better feel the heat of Aziraphale hard cock pushing steadily inside him.

His own cock pulsed, untouched, between them. Crowley brought his head back down, opening his eyes to stare at Aziraphale. He couldn't seem to decide on where he wanted to keep his stare. It flickered from Crowley's cock to where Aziraphale’s cock was disappearing inside Crowley and then back to his face.

"Are you...good," he pushed out.

"Not gonna break me, angel." The words came out far softer than he wanted. He balanced his hands behind himself on Aziraphale's legs, their eyes locked as he as he sank down completely onto his cock. He only stopped when he felt Aziraphale's thighs resting on his ass. Smirking, he clenched around him. "I'm good. You?"

"Oh!" Aziraphale's hips jerked, fingers digging into Crowley. "Oh...so good. You feel so good!" Their lips met, all of the soft, slowness from before vanished as they swallowed their moans and tongues in equal measure.

Aziraphale's hands helped him rise and fall on his erection, and Crowley's grip shifted to Aziraphale's arms, feeling the tension as muscles shifted. He worked Crowley on his cock effortlessly. Crowley had seen this strength in action before, but used for this purpose it was making his cock leak and ache.

"Tou-touch me."

His plea was answered immediately as a hand wrapped around his erection, stroking him in a smooth motion from head to base. The loss of the hand on his waist shifted the angle of Aziraphale's cock, and the next push inside him made him jerk, eyes wide.

"Aaah, right there," he growled. Aziraphale's hands flexed where they held him, and when he pulled out and then slammed in at that same angle, Crowley arched his back and screamed as he came.

He felt Aziraphale's hips stutter, push inside him frantically, and then felt his come as he clenched around his cock. He twisted his grip on Aziraphale's arms, drawing himself upright as the orgasm washed over him and left him breathless and shaky.

Aziraphale's hand moved to the small of his back, guiding him to lay across his body as he slid out of him with a groan. "Oooh, that was perfect."

Pressing his cheek into his chest, Crowley panted, marveling Aziraphale could even talk right now. He couldn't form words. They were in his head, much of the same praise Aziraphale had, but they wouldn't push past his lips in a way that made sense.

"Mmnff," he responded. All the messy sensations he felt from coming three times in the last hour vanished, and Crowley dimly wondered if someone was getting alerts on what exactly was being miracled. He hoped they were.

Two arms curled around him, holding him snug, and he smiled as Aziraphale made a contented noise under him. "I concur, my dear. That was a lovely first time for us!"

"Third time, angel," he reminded, turning his face to press a kiss underneath a nipple. He felt the shiver under him.

"If we do that we'll be in triple digits in no time. No, best to count each time with an hour in between as once. Much easier." Aziraphale shook with his chuckle. "Will you stay the night?"

The question made him jerk in surprise, and he felt his cheeks flush. "Sure," he mumbled.

"My dear, despite speaking directly into me, I can't hear—"

"I said sure," he snapped, lifting his head to look into a teasing smile. Those lips pressed against his forehead, a hand pressing under his chin so their lips could meet for the second kiss.

Crowley liked these soft, slow kisses the best. It felt as if they were both memorizing the taste and feel of each other. He exhaled as Aziraphale leaned back. "We should eat."

"Mm, yeah. S'not cold is it?" Crowley asked, feeling too languid to move just yet.

Aziraphale didn't move either, and his next words confirmed that he wasn't eager to move them either. "It will stay hot a bit longer, my dear."

They didn't move for a long time after that, but when they did it was to eat the still hot food, drink, and talk as they always did on evenings in the bookshop.

There was a difference in the air between Crowley and Aziraphale now, and judging by the smiles on their faces, they knew and were delighted by it.


End file.
